The moon forgets its own face.

I'm reminded that I don't like the colour of sky

in summer, ever. Someone asks me to smell

their rose colour. I say, Get out of the way

of my birdsong! Watch the brittle hands

falling from me, dry retching on the taste

of love letters, eyes welling up

with the brutal smell of drumming.

The moon is waiting for a better time

to show its face. It cries, Spoon, dish,

but what about a tuning fork? Its face

an open tub of Brillatine cream, singing

from a bathroom that's lost its house.

The sun comes up, goes down on a pulley.

Breakfast television is changing. Autumn

takes me, I am breathless. It breathes its

brown and gold over my green lentil skin. Smiling,

I realise my treetop walking is coming along,

steadily. No one standing beneath shouting,

Look at old Elephant Ears! The tightrope's

taken down and used as a lasso. Summer

has put its hope in me and I won't let it down

or the crowd of teenagers lining up for a name.

My pen fights like a terrier, a rose tasting

metaphor for itself. And you?