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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