A glove rests on a traffic light,
A child fallen asleep mid-play
Someone picked up off the ground and tucked in lovingly on a perch.
Above the mud and the melting sleet it dreams of the hand at home,
Of dry warmth and sticky sweets.
A mask hangs limp near the front door,
Exhausted by the burned landscape,
Smoke rising in thin dancers tempting rain.
In the flood, a sea horse drags the mask, parakiting in reverse,
The burden it must bear for my breath.
The sewing lady came to stitch them onto me,
My uniform of glove and mask,
Steeling me in the confusion of traffic
When the red light begins to flash.
On finding a child's glove at the traffic light.
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