I remember you.
Now that it’s getting cold and the streets are turning cobbled-butyric
Stinking Ginkgos are squished into the cracks
On the pavement.
On Coudray Str. or in the Ilmpark,
Your hands again, pawing (perceiving) my stunning lack.
Asking what I can take,
If I can take it,
If anything in this equation can be received.
I keep trying to locate your space in the library
That’s my favourite sitting place,
Or hiding spot
Except, I need 10 more floors,
Just 10 more storeys to finally get it.
Like, I need it to be a proper mound,
Just exactly like the one I was left on.
I keep trucking and wriggling into postwarwickshire/
postwarwickshire subspace/
Sublandscape, with Elizabeth,
John, and Edward.
The postwarwickshire reader
Slips into the gap between tudor and medieval,
It’s a Henryshaped gap that’s made mincemeat of time.
Ed Confessor may as well just get out of bed,
Sit up,
Dance,
Just
Get up into the middle or the end- &
Then we’ll go
Submerge him in old Victorian detergent/
Get him rolled out through the mangle/
Get him to stay there