These English gardens
with their wasps and
melancholy, are lavish;
bustling overhead.

We link hands, kiss,
find harmony in whimsy
with oversized shoes
and falling wooden blocks.

These blocks cacophonise
on this concrete ceiling of mine;
these hieroglyphs are pantomime
of nail and reluctant, passing time.

Leaning strands of leaf
and twig shake hands
in front of faces, like the long
long souls we rattle in sunlight.

Lie in damp, cidered grass
and sing to the invisible stars.
In hiccuped haste we lurch and
prey for sun tomorrow.

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