On top of the plastic viking hat The one with horns That sits over the newton’s cradle On top of the antique roll desk Is a gold tinsel tiara Child size – magical It’s a good thing I have a small head

He takes my ores Smelts them within The blast furnace of my core The rod reddened from The heat of fever dreams Quenching the tip In the expanse of my waters Enclosed within his earth. Boiling over to subside to warmth. How love changes From…

People say green thumbs are rare Because they know not To coax growth from dirt Is to labour Watered with the eye’s diamonds Shone with topaz and citrine Fed with air To grow gold from the depths.