Scribbles lie on
paper prologues,
The passing book
is a nomad.
Dust-wanderers
cross plains of
beige snow.

Mountains are pastel
colours,
Boxes of pine
and ready-made
comfort.
They stand
as monuments to
Ikea.

Pillows brood as
dream-hens,
They lay such
illusions on to
infant thoughts.
Duvets
steal the cold
and
watch it smother.

The radio
croons a cranial
massage
into the night.
Somewhere,
a moth
flirts, fails, cries
over its lover
(a miniature sun goddess)
and instead
decides to dance
with burns.

Once the
radio waves
silence,
The serenade
of a fly
plays to the
many moons
of raindrops
behind a
curtain
of stained glass,
stained with
the tears of
some far-off
storm.

Mint skies
illuminate
chocolate blockades,
tomato-orange
bedsheets bubble
with my  lungs.
Dust-gold
lies like a
pan of
carpet sand.

Knock, snuffle, slept.