The garage door has a remote control
just in case they’ll have to leave in a haste,
just in case cold washing delicate fabrics,
petit fours, hot cross buns and Christmas decorations
are one day not enough.
And at night she lies awake, staring gimlet-eyed.
Imagines each grain of the dark brown wood.
Memorises for the morning: There is an inlet, innate
But in the morning tells him: By the way,
this year around, I wish for another fur coat, Darling.
Some nights, standing up she pulls the shawl harder
around her shoulders, empties a bucket,
rinses a tunnel, notices an unheard of archipelago.
She blinks and it’s the same old garden.
There are so many gardens to leave
the holy-water-sprinkler in and earth
closets to empty all over. Candle and torch
sweep across crunchy clear-cut Area Code
taken for being sand dunes.
A pile of chips clatters, sways like she
used to do when she walked on stilts and Maybe
with a foam-machine I can cover all this Debris
she thinks as she hides behind the jalousie
like a Chinese theatre piece. Then kills also this
uninvited guest. Dumps it in the garden with the rest
of thoughts in yet another wolf cub’s hour.