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
.