on the kitchen table of my heart there is an origami zoo –
all inhabitants catalogued by size and shape,
and brought out occasionally for walks –
which was all well and good,
until you took up residence in my lounge room.

you and a dozen or so colourful birds for an entourage,
milling and mulling and singing and drumming
and filling my house with an infectious humming
that promises to drown out the voices repeating
the rules and the guidelines and ‘not yet, love’.

and even though I have a million good reasons
to turn up the speakers
turn on the alarms
and turn down your offers to dance,
I must admit, my dear, that what you have unfolded in me
might never again fit tight in the palm of my hand.

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