she never makes her bed in the morning.
(but, sometimes, she does in the afternoon)


dreams of duvet mountains in a blue world,
mountains in dreams, remembered,
vaguely, like words from letters tucked away
in a box somewhere, visions come back when
least expected then sit down on the couch,
as if waiting to be served afternoon tea.


i am here to speak with you, they say,
but she is putting on her scarf and
the conversation continues as she exitsv
past the antique shop, multiple boulangeries,
and she stops;


“est-ce que je peux seulement un cafe, s’il vous plait?”


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words