he fears he is losing
again stanzie slipping into the mind
of this: logs to stack but trapped
behind a plastic tray picking bugs
from the sky: where is that man
who had the key? why won't he unlock me?

he pictures you, bright in the morning, slipping
dimly into midnight like a sodden sun

not curious any longer, but driven down
his sweet stanzie strange & long forgotten,
standing in the doorway or her shadow
standing, turning round, another scrap of shrapnel
caught in the cyclone.

My baby, he says I looks good, that is all that matters.

I have a pink scarf from the Sheep Farm.

I was a cute bare-nippled blonde girl once, with pigtails.

I was Bridget Jones.

I lolls about, the bridges.

I talk about trolls.

I wonder what fairy tale next will come, picturing horses.