In his letters, he writes so much, in order to say so little.
If he could, he would press my body flat; a dry leaf for a bookmark
in his personal briefcase, only to be reanimated to full form
at his whim and made moist. That's the sort of things he composes.

An ostrich, he digs his head in the trunk of the car
when he arrives, unloading baguettes, walnuts and juices.
Every time, he insists on first cleansing his tongue with vodka
and that I do not wash for days after it's been there.
I'm all happy. The kitchen he's given me is coated with gold.

If wind shakes the wooden house for ladybirds in the garden,
silhouettes of petals show on my unsocked toes.
Late this afternoon, on the floor, there are cats' whiskers
that are, I suppose, only imaginary. I think I must be half-blind,
thanks to the helmet-shaped lamp post
crying wolves and toads.

My camera's screen went all black one day in 2010
when I tried to picture two well-nourished squirrels
plodding the wet mud, scavenging rusty nails.
I never saw them fight, or kiss, for that matter.
Send me a new camera, please. Do you have my current address?
I think this is London. There should be a postal code.