Since November, you have learned a trick.
To fold Peter up inside your head.
Work his un-co-operating limbs until he fits in the box.
And sit on it.
So you don't break.
Sometimes you forget to hold down.
And let him spring up out of the box.
With an electric shock of blonde hair,
and a crimson wet gash for a mouth.
The mouth you know.
The hair you've touched.
And it all lies under the earth now,
one box Peter can't jump out of.