In the shower, silent as the nervous
window cleaner forced to peer
at scenes of intimacy, cautious
in its approach to the woodland
hairs of Armpit Valley.
Frequenting the soap of a withered
sponge once of lavender dreams
while clammy petrichor reeks
out of open pores, the moth grazes
through the downpour towards the elbow.
The sponge meteor hovers sympathetically
thinking over its mission for absolute
cleanliness if it meant wiping the wings
and flesh and blood from ambivalent
and unaware bystanders.