To all laments and purposes

Against platinum birches

I want nothing here [but you].

We have trees at home. Shall I

wing you the courtyard fountain’s

midnight palaver, to lull

the list of your lonely sleep?

Love is wicker, then water;

marriage an avenue of

limes, but not the bitter kind.

I’m stood at the north extreme:

the reflecting pool unrolls

a shadow world of clouds &

yews, another far orchard,

enamelled pavilions.

It’s shaking hardly at all.

My nights are aloner too.