The child in the garden wears a coat
collaged from the skins of paper,
sutured with lengths of my hair.
I am inside the house
in a matching coat.
 
There is no one to tell us not to;
called here, as we were
by the halloo of peacocks
who turned tail
the day we arrived.
 
We are waiting for Bluebeard,
and when he happens here
in his grey-silver car,
he will unleash wolves
like rain.