rubble

it ends with the hair clippings

sweeping up the coarse cuttings

like a post-crisis crew picking up

my rubble isn’t always matter

sometimes I forget that it’s there

no physical evidence

no yellow tape

only words piled up in corners

and pictures flashing through

broken slides on a projector

my rubble is silent

it didn’t come from an earthquake

though there is always a fault line

and it’s my fault

lines I draw to protect and to savor

lines to keep out and lines to keep in

lines in the kitchen tile

that catch each strand

as I continue to sweep up the hair clippings