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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem