For more than these past few weeks, for months,

I’ll say I’ve been having the strangest dreams.

They want to stick to me, between my skin and

The time that I’ll oversleep, they fear the next

Morning, and the things I’ll wake up to, that my

So-called, morning-routines, will sober and put

Them away. Well, these days, my bed clothes can

Foresee calamities, and they keep a log of our

Panic, of all of the new words, which we’re

Using to make sense of these times: As such

‘Breaking News’ and ‘Important Updates’ are

These tall, inimitable stems, a boundary of

Garden weeds that sit out of the grass and come

Up to your knees, they know to wait outside

Sun-smelling, where my car is shaking to a start;

Where I won’t notice them in my afternoon

Washing, and even now, nearly two years on

I find them ‘misunderstood’, whenever they’re

Trying to ‘play dead in the footpath’, well, I think

That they are hoping to be seen, that they prefer to

Be thought of as ‘troubled’, as ‘self-sacrificing’

And how they must get together on the night before

Bin day, where the aim is to appear, unassuming,

Skittled between bins in the footpath.