I woke and found the jade back in my palm and scrambled out of bed.
Lock by lock I hurried through the house until I found the door to the
back garden ajar. The passage in the hedge had taken, on one side, the
impression of your loping form; I discerned the angle of an elbow, the
lift of one leg. Your pace had been easy, I could see, but I’d slept with the
dregs of wine. Lacking a name for this kind of theft, I returned to bed
with an itching palm, with an already emerging dream in green.

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