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?