Scott Beal
not knowing any science
for softening a face
except by razor.
Watching April
dusk settle in light
traces of snow along
a shrub's stripped
dendrites just outside.
Seeing how cold
can appear to craft
a form of warmth.
Your man asks
with lips he finds dull
except when pressed
against a vein
in your neck.
The razor remakes
by removing. Each
day restores the face
to a state of less,
and he asks, finally,
in his forties, to learn
elementary addition.
He opens
a door, steps out
to finger crooks of shrub,
to feel the wet paint
melt into his finger-
print. Once he wants
to catch the dazzle
of the mood lighting
on more than bared
teeth. He asks in fear
that must be overcome
of sharpened points
pressing his thinnest
skin. He holds his breath
for a steady hand
that can free his own
to go on shaking.