BLANKET Comments

I'll wrap this evening in a blanket and take it to a garden.
Not to yours, Love (laziness is to a poem what
northern light is to

REM sleep). But to a garden adjacent
to yours, so tantalisingly close you can never be certain whether
I got the address wrong or delivered wrongly on purpose out of petty,

soft revenge. And why not
smuggling a dirt road - down which you never - to my
midnight. To smuggle places to moments and vice versa, for a
consciously linked now and here, self-constructed present.
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