Insanity

It's outside,
hanging from an ornamental tree
dressed in full camisole
with its trousers sewn together
and mittens locked at the wrist.

When the poplar trees spin flames
it sings lullabies to the locked gates.

If it's dumped at the hospital library
amongst the Self Help books
it will lick the butter from its paws
and find its way back to you.

It's here
in the sleeping drops
and uniforms of silk.

It wants to lead me to the road
and throw my body at a car.