Evening Shave

The razor had a keener edge
this evening, perhaps because
I was out of soap and thus
forced to rub the gleaming blade
(down, down, down, then up, up, up)
against the flushing strip of flesh,
naked, between nose and lip.
It drew blood, of course, incessant
globules bubbling out to mark
invisible punctures, two
on each side, skirting the philtrum,
like the imprints left by some
nocturnal visiting undead.
Caution creeps with every passing night;
I suppose in twenty years
my drooping lip would repel
the very approach of the razor
if ungauzed by a lather,
and an ungauzed incision
would probably hurt a lot more
the morning after.

Critique 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4gq9dt/poem_for_cornell/d2keszw

Critique 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4gs1pb/word_sonnet/d2kez0g