I try to imagine a vixen, in a field of snow,
with four purple mitts like membranes to her feet...

I would mould my hands
into blinkers, so that nosy branches...

If you think I will wait for you here
beneath this rain-soaked parasol...

Under an oak tree I sit
with you in summer...

I wake up every morning to an alarming sound,
the sound of no sound...

You think I dont know it, but amongst
Your greenhouse kisses you scent of something else...

If you were a planet, I bet
you would dance around the sun...

Glazing at the nail-hard rain
from the front seat of my comatose...

Walking in the mornings,
I get the feeling that...

The sweet stickiness of strawberry jam
was the air of the airport, and on...

We flit around the cobbled square
under the snow of moonlight...

I wake with an alarming desire
to arm myself with balloons...