It was a spike of jasmine, scent travels in thorns across snow, an essence carried not by loftiness. My feet landed in thorned arrival and she stood witnessed, my pregnant night owl.

Blankets of breathless snow lay for her discomfort but it reddens my gums and tongue. 

Idle toys in white trash piles, they sleep on ice dreaming for warmth underground. Glances of Dionysian laughter shudders the solid wind, she knows that she’s not pregnant, she’s dreaming.

Trails of my existence gaslight her as I walk in canoe shoes towards her swelled phantom. 

Lighting four fires in cardinal projection, snaring her to provide the birch logs. This is a book burning for toys, infertility has killed irreverence, the cold licked your lips of voice. 

What means nothing means something is walking down means I don’t know means who are you means Hello.

Silence speaks, ‘throw all of your toys into the fire, what will awake?’

She hands me logs to feed the fires and her plastic things blossom to black anuses. 

Pregnant night owl stands behind me, pretends she is meek, she’s afraid I will eat her. 

I do her work for her but I do not share her heart, I am the janitor and she the queen.

Throwing in toys into these fires as if testing bunk fireworks, we wait to see what awakes.

A plastic white horse is thrown up on the flame, but no black anus is bubbling but from it a kick and a revving. 

The horse grows the height of I, but it turns from plastic to real life. 

It dances in the fire and I stand back watching a toddler convert into a star. 

The voice of silence was answered and my pregnant night owl revered. But I tended with greater focus and saw no reins.

In flames the dancing horse jumped out like a mutter from a dream, and we walked up a snow hill out of the gardens steel gate.

All from a dream.