By | 1 August 2012

I’m in my garden.

This poem needs love, that needs secateurs.

I ruin quite a few trees.

Try hard. Outside objectivity helps.

But you’ve got to keep slouching back to your own Bethlehem.

I don’t read classy writers.

Get anxious.

But when I find a lover …

With one shoe off …

Sleeps blanket time, with a thumb in my mouth.

Syrup on the breakfast table.

The last piece of bacon.

Effortless fat.

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