I had to go to town to buy teeth for the toothless mouth that had taken up residence at the bottom of our stairs. I had to stop off on the way to buy a bag to put autumn leaves in - in the autumn months I buy blackened glass to raise to a burning sun. I found a coat of cabbage leaves beneath the telescopic sights of the market square and wore it on the rain spilled way home; as I moved I pulled the tight fitting scenery from the intimate walls like designer wallpaper off a troupe of exotic dancers. I got in with a small animal balanced on my warm tongue; it was busy foraging for the words I had just spoken and didn’t notice the figure in the mirror made entirely of old tin cans. I bemoaned the passing of ancient containers and then wrote a requiem to miscellaneous pieces of used cling film.