At daybreak a boy
(monogram sky—coy
latex) stowed the milk
crate; inflexions of fate
coruscated amid the dray of his envoy.
Mrs Taanach hobbles
veins cobble as she vets—
electing to cow hitch
piebald bottles, green
with carcinoma brown.
She leads you past time
ilked in an anglophile
verandah where geraniums—
the same as her
red dress and raucous feet—wire.
‘You go under here.’
So you go. Insincere,
compact red dirt
beneath the house forces
your head to bow, finger to ear,
you give up what she
offers for free.
Leave the idle crate,
collect up the bottles,
colours clink in the void of sluicing
dust. It is cool beneath
the floor, you strike heat
from her as she passes
above you.
