Tonight there are petals along the corridors
to your room; candlelight leads
through a world of scent
and you are enchanted by all that is vanishing:
the bag in your hand has disappeared,
a jacket has been unhooked and peeled away,
the walls don't shudder when you walk through,
only door frames becoming metaphor and simile.
There are no moths caught translucent on a window pane.
There are no panes - bookshelves have melted,
catalogues recycled, and forms have become an idea.
The same has happened with every electrical appliance,
batteries do not exist, soft furnishings evaporate
until all that remains is wood, linen, and feathers -
the only objects on the way to an absent window
where you take my hand from under the covers,
curl around my back like a cape - and I wake,
to walk through the snowflakes with you.
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