by Arthur Smid
A woman in the room, she is the house,
The fabric on my bed in fulfillment of her.
Bed elves, baby dreams in her making fun,
The caterpillar eats a drop of dew.
A prancing pony, my faded wallet
Trees eat carbon sun, she leaves
A man in the house, he is the room.
The children on my bed in fulfillment of her.