I used your razor this morning, felt
its hum in my hand, your name still taped
to the handle. You didn't use it
toward the end, your chin grizzled white.
"It's cold where I'm going," you said,
though at the wake you were clean-shaven.
I've heard it said hair still grows for a time
after death. Until then, I'll leave sages
to their itch and stick with smooth, letting
blades graze the skin's surface, grooming ground
for what rises in the grave, where fingers
no longer tactile still reach with nails that curl
toward the world, and beards grace the faces
of men, as if wisdom can still save them.