The Bookshop Sessions #10
There’s a pink blob at the edge of his bed
It’s got a star for a tail and wide eyes.
Holding down the creases, it releases its form,
and rides into the dream of two brothers fighting
To blame the fallen canvas.
Fearless he stands,
with a stare that could bend air,
as a fist full of feathers brushes his chin.
Falling gently,
Steady the wind knocks
A torrii gate into his
heavy lent shoulders
Its wood chips, crumble
Nowhere going
simply, he says
I am looking in
To the farm he remembers not
a straw bed never seemed so