When your thighs are prickling on a haystack in cut-off denims

and you’re a week off forty

and you’ve never heard of this band, but you like it

and you’re on your third pint of artisan cider

and you can see now there’s nothing at all wrong with wanting everything

and nothing to remain exactly the same

and you write wish upon wish upon wish upon luggage labels tied with string

and you hang them in the branch-bones of the wicker Green Man

and you’ve learned that desire has no time for shame

and you cheer with the others as the whole thing goes up in flames.