How could I have a wandering eye,
when mine are always demure,
almost falling into my tea like sugar cubes?
I claim nothing;
no opinion, no item, no gesture
as my own--
I borrowed this hat,
this face with its serenely docile expression.
like a forgotten marker,
is my skull, twinned with socket-blanks
and the moths that emerge and expand by wing and instinct.
Relax, dear Master.
Everyone admires your wool suits,
your silk cravats,
and your cashmere sense of entitlement.
On the other hand,
no one sees or suspects the devouring flutter I unleash from concealment
without a word,
for Magpie #255