The nursery’s idle regime masks rules and hoops
that pen the precocious maggot. Bare-bottomed,
thighs an oval declension, lips pursing before an
avalanche of grubs. The duties of the adult world
setting loose the joyous insolence of urchins.
Redeeming a jealous lottery stub, plucked from the pocket
of the still-clothed client. What will they have to show for
their tax-free afternoon? A haiku, inked pink between
the delicate ribs of a near sheer, golden fan. Her abduction,
the fabric of her jacket. Fewer relics than I was prepared for.
Pillow book entries she should have dominated, but
turned up missing instead. Gone to ground, but where?
To think of her, shuttlecocked between militia and city mouse,
eyes adjusting to extremes of light, did no one any good.