Dissonances


leave it, love, 
I'm used to it now

to lettuce that is more
sour than I like

my g-string entangled 
with your boxer

spinning in the 
washing machine,

after so many years
when I know forever 
how to iron a shirt

I again find a hair 
from your beard
in my powder-box

endearing
homicidal

and upstairs somebody
is playing the 
nutcracker suite
way out of tune.