This is the ornate layer: in the supermarket warehouse,
boxed children’s gardens rocking on a fork-lift truck,
two rats rutting as a closed door would be punched over
and over again (we are locked out: the paddling pools
are torture saying Florida! Florida! Florida! forever).
The toys come alive to Für Elise as they do in all our
combined nightmares, daring each other, spinning on
the stray dust leaked into crates, making waves of fur.
Camping in the Supermarket Garden
Outside, the motorway is humming with the night shift
but it is not luminescent or romantic like the glow-gore
of signs in America that say M O T E L. Instead, the
burnt stubble of wildness: low-lyingspinney and shrub,
the gradual fallout from car crashes, overage tent-shares
or overage friendship. Unpacked beer for goose-pimpled
men loud with drink, their eyes wide and pale all night.
They go back on Sundays to their Tamblin Avenues and
Hollyhock Gardens, blooming with the fire smell, taking
their shoes off, picking up their tiny babies, having baths.
While sitting, they flick through the catalogue. Watching,
a tight teal or sea-blue orient themed wall frieze, a waist
belt Millenium hangover; keeping it in. A cat squats and
quivers as it craps in the bushes. Now on the quiet estate
they are cooking, rest assured things will stay as they are.