I try to count them as they fall, each strand
a second passing on the clock’s tired face.
They shed themselves as quickly as the days,
collecting like a calendar of ways
that I’ve received and then rejected grace.
And yet, all this detritus in the drain
is caked here in conditioner and sand,
reminding me of all the things we are
and all the ways we try to flee the instar
of ourselves, wanting to be whole again.