Clothes closed up the middle with stitches
Like burst bagpipes
You are felt
You are plaid
You are boot heel black
On my blue kitchen chair
Your eyes are triggered buttons on a panel
I reach my hands inside your chest
And remove the only thing of value
It resembles a hinge
which throws open a gate
And the sheep are the first to escape
Then the ghosts riding behind the sheep
Then the birds perched on the hats of the ghosts
All of it plastered together with cold stone, with warm wind
Every time you pull a coin from behind my ear, I’m genuinely surprised