& make a tent out of loose-fitting neurons:
a tabernacle in the daily grind
of contrapuntal voices overlapping.
I’d like to spend three years inside your mind
& build a temple & a sacred site –
an icon made of cerebrospinal fluid.
I made a cistern. Through the pitter-patter
of thoughts attacking like a thunder-storm
there is a reservoir which draws the mass
of hopeful yearnings, duly dissipated
in the vault of nervous nothingness.
I was prepared to feel alone, expected the government-mandated 2-metre gap to yawn between us, cold and hostile. I expected these new spaces to be