Nothingness is a felled coat on a bed

with its heart removed. Like a dog,

it doesn’t know if you’re coming back,

and if your perfume will be reinserted 

later. Do the other prim jackets bully it 

for being a bulky army greatcoat 

that’s seen stone mosques stitched 

with sand. Is it scared – the wallpaper 

of purple pines is a missile bay in a submarine 

beneath the dossing sea. The coat hopes 

its pockets of woodbines and the small

book of love letters of great men, showing 

a disinterest for the well-being of others, 

will be enough to regain the brush 

of your throat on the collar.