Paula Harris: today an editor told me that what I write isn’t poetry and so maybe I don’t know how to write a poem but I was thinking about you and wanted to write something; so here is your something

you are the bath filled with green marbles
I slip into at night to wash myself

you are the letterbox overflowing with sleeping ladybirds
I check compulsively for mail

you are the curtains of pink candyfloss
I pull closed after the moon comes up

you are the couch made of turnips
I lie on as I wait

you are the carpet made of ripe figs
I dance over on summer mornings

none of this makes sense so it’s possibly a poem
none of this makes sense so

you are the wheelbarrow full of silver bullets
I feed to the garden to make it grow


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