Prickle a lamb, 
giggle a yam, 
beat a chrysanthemum 
out of its head 
with a red feather. 
Dream of a pencil 
or three airmail stamps 
under your pillow. 
Thank the good fairy 
you're not dead. 

The heat's on, 
the window's gone, 
the ceiling is sorry 
it hurt you. 
But this is not air 
holding your hand, 
nor weasels beneath 
your dirt rug. 
I think the corks 
are out of breath, 
the bottles begin 
laughing a zoo. 

I wish you were here. 
The calendar is red, 
a candle closes 
the room. 
If this is the life 
we are all leaving 
it's half as bad. 
Hello again mad turnip. 
Let's tango together 
down to the clear 
glad river.