Turn the mud. Bo Peep’s head tumbles out,
wide-eyed, mouth a little open.

Men are the color of soil
Women are sitting on the ashes

you are the shadow slipping through the mirror

We’re stuck on a scene, frozen, like the ice cubes I begged Mum to get with the little flowers in them. Like taking a test in the school gym but your knees are so big they’re banging into the desk.

Afternoon hangs in the air, and the birds leave.
Frogs begin to talk to each other, and the heat congeals.
 

If you could call that friend,
the special one,
the one you always love and know loves you

Until the dead, sucked from leaf mould graves
are rising in forest sap, to make connections
inside strange green brains

a day later you’re in l.a. picking out cars with the magic
only money can buy

So many times I walked
head down   half asleep
along that ordinary road to school