If it were up to me you’d be

made of bodywarmers 

in artisan socks from 

Iceland, Eigg or Hoth

even in June, in June

I want to keep you 

bundled, call you toast

and soft and close as 

microwaved milk

in a crumpet oubliette.

Ready Brek jet setter,

your crown a fiery hob

Top of the Pops and bonfire 

fudge, nestled in fleece,

honey, middle encased

in a crucible of cashmere,

forever sleep snug in a 3.5 tog

my tiny love, fisherman’s friend.

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