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.

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