The Razor

It knows my surface

physiognomy-keen where it can

and cannot glide-better than

myself. (Will I have, when this

is done, a face I recognize,

a profile left, or right?) Morning

cuts the pattern for the adolescent owning

of the day to come. Its kiss,

thin-lipped, sends me on

to what I deem familiar

as facsimile of what we are,

and what Iam- Homo erectus of one

more day of man, shorn

of beard and cave and flint,

left behind in mirror, skinned

of rudimentary Cro-Magnon and Piltdown.