Comb
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10 Comb Sure, poems are momentary stays against confusion, but so is the comb I use every morning, imposing or, say, teasing out of the white tangle the illusion of civility and order to which we all aspire. Even better, if the comb had longer teeth and could get under the skull to rake those whorls of the brain to a Zen garden of pattered white pebbles that might last. Apparently Frost never combed his hair, having learned to limit his expectations, as I have done myself. Still, seeing that tousled apparition staring back every morning, I comb it once again. ...
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