gather in the hand.
The vacuum cleaner bristling
like a combine sucks
other broken fibers from my home.
Across the room the TV gnome
explodes: teeth too sharp
skin enameled, lips like gaskets--
scrubbed but
dirty underneath and spitting foam.
The floor has been soaked
with piss of a million long-dead dogs
unhousebroken, scrapping at the doors
to be let out.
So has it always been,
but these shed hairs of mine
won’t end up in an orange bag
dug up behind some grandkid’s home.
They're headed for compost
straight from the comb.
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