My skin crawls at the thought

that they abound.

In the rose bushes, and the treetops —

in your foundation, and coming in

through the windows and gaps.

All the stones unturned

are black boxes — safe harbors

for little eavesdroppers.

Every last one,

seeing us through

10,000 lenses each,

their feelers are out

and they’re passing it

all along.

They’re on the ceiling,

they’re under your car’s chassis,

you take them with you

sometimes on your person.

They’re tearing down your house,

and stealing your food,

and keeping tabs on you —

and there are too many

to squash, before they scatter

to hide in the cracks.

We’ve all gotten used to it.

They’re out of sight

for now,

is all I can say.

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