Tokens of past holidays
by my bedside.
I am on the aeroplanes
that shake the roof tiles loose.
I’ve been cruel to all my worry dolls,
and the cryptographer of my diaries.
so here’s the only plan I have:
I’ll leave my breakfast
on the bookshelf.
I’ll pack my dreams,
and the remains of my parents.
I’ll fill up on everyone else’s fresh air
I’ll flee the scene of the crime
until there is none
and become a flea:
I’ll make the earth sick.