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Each morning I lift my chin
and draw the razor
to erase the night's growth -
the thing that slowly transforms my face
growing with the inertia
of crystals in stone.
Ritually, the razor flicks sideways
through the warm pool
to free the cloyed blade,
rinsing where yesterday´s neglected whiskers
still stick resolutely to the side of the sink,
in a joint resistance with the residue of soap.
Seeing them gone is a sort of
small victory − an affirmation
against the mineral kingdom, I think.
And I think
I find small pleasure
watching them descend, banished
to a gloss of PVC and porcelain.
A Case for the Idols