Bobbles, clips and slides,
with lip gloss, foundation and some blusher,
a nation of stuffed toys
facing your cds and books,
coats on hooks, and prose
packed into files;
that stand aside a cupboard
of cases and sacks, keeping
from harm an army of boots and strapless shoes,
above are packs containing spools of thread
bobbing on mounds of wool and
patches of cotton
matching a rattle of colourful buttons,
hiding beneath a sleet of lacy gowns
that stare across at a wealth of stones who
are singing and swimming in fake crystal
cups to the next shelf up
where a coast of glistening sleepers are
whispering down on your
empty pillow
about my head.
Which is filling this space to its brim with silence.
