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The last shave of the year,
losing the mirrored past
of a beard to white porcelain
and saged green.

The bare face has been long
in reaching these conclusions
of separation, whisked away
by the heated stream.

The razor, new, transgressed
and started to cut
that crazy Joker grin
by my left ear, its blood
mingling with red bristles.

Running my finger, I feel the scar,
the wound clotted to harsh
contrast to the smooth face
of a new year.

Some years are like that,
coagulated in memory forever,
holding the colors fast to the year,
the green and white of school children,
and all that red, flowing,
down the drain of 2012.

Perhaps things will be new,
this year, but the weather
seems to be changing
for the worse.

) bringing in the New Year at DversePoets (