Postcard from a small country

I travel through unthinking darkness/

to wake among the familiar hills and valleys of the duvet./

A tail curved like a question mark/

escapes from the wardrobe’s cave./

The kitchen is lit by the perpetual sunshine/

of the fridge. I dip my hands in cold water,/

feel the grains of rice like sand/

between my fingers./

In the bathroom, mist rises from a torrent of water./

The couch remembers our shapes/

like moss on a forest floor./

Beyond socks as bright as flags/

on the washing line, a lone squirrel/

patrols the fence./