A bowl of beetroot soup my love,
some soup on the bedside table.
In your fever, you will feel things
too close to the skin, your fingernails are glazing.
You will think some love is the colour of blood,
some carrot stuck in wastegrate.
Take this sickness,
write shadows on the to do list;
an orange in an oven of orchards
a church clasp of cloves
loaves and loaves of wardrobes
and fish instincts.
Some fevers turn,
pass mothers by bannisters