The way to Blake is to open the door for Chaucer
Spring the bawdy house.

That'll bring 'em on-scent. I am a woman.

Refer to them as slip-ons, Dear, not brothel-creepers.

Mirror balls. Multi-focal lenses.

Stalked by an apogee. Round midnight, would you believe.

I have a council permit.

 

 

 
I pose the portentous by placing vacancy beside cut lilac. 
Heinz factory. Not much pay.

I might mention geometry. A trapezoid carrot with a sexual angle.

How to give orders while hinting at invitation.

Something odd about that mirror in the Ladies'.

The dark moon. The period. The full stop. Get it?

The i on the vanishing point. Dotted.

 

 

 
Fan-in-hand=butterfly=transience=Get it Now!
Ah, 'slave to chrysanthemums'.

I could work in the crescent moon.

Do not assume that they mean haiku as you do.

The back of the mirror. Look at that!

A master follows. Folded hands.

Nevertheless, my view to publication.