Friday, May 01, 2015

Using the lid from a Bic pen, I scour the floorboards' expansion gap.
I pick through my daughter's hair, boil wash my son's cap
And spray the roses. Weekend of moths, nits and aphids,
And of Pico's syncretism.
Russians mistake my verse for steganography.
As if I could be got to, with my housemaid’s knee.