I wait for the stars with one hand on my keyboard

You are asleep in your room, darling one
and the line from you to me is there, but slack,
with room to wind it, wrap it around my index finger.
Because I am in the garden under a sky too purple to focus on,
dusty with clouds and atmosphere. I hear
bassinets and violins, rise and otherwise, fall.
The Ivy on our garden wall
has a sense of self beyond my control.
I can only hack at it, senselessly, uneducated in
foliage containment.


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