Who takes the rubbish out

As the rubbish is taken out by me only noticed by me loved by me
as the frost is palpable in my hands unguarded on the dustbin of the skirmish we had pre dew
as your right to say: 'Not enough is done in the house!'
Let's leave it and mute it.


Please be silent please as gestation in a womb
I'll recount the scenery of what you missed
Because you breed discontent through words which may be imperfect
While images are so precise...
You still asleep in dreams and to ask your dreams if they were inclusive of me
It is a thing.


Amiss is my posture lifting the compost at 7 am and my brow creased to add semblance of labour
just to show the milkman's open cart going through the road, first of the ladies who go cleaning and feel the breeze most,

following whoever in veil guides school kids in dark anorak in the cold breath
of teachers, of big faced monsters, of places of captivity and no reward
We are we, the apostles of hygiene.
Spread a flamboyant white sheet on our unkempt alcove
un-dirty-able
to gather all the dew of the Earth.