on the run writing

congregating out of danger,
then ring on the door bell furiously
of this establishment
i never registered
but as an obstacle between a moments dash

into the shop's backgarden
of private paradise under trampolene,
under disused deep fryer,
behind uninhabitable thorn shrub
with soft side out of view
leading perhaps into an adrenaline hole
through to another similar volume
of useful detritus to bury-
even thought with a flutter of foxhole
or  hedgehogg- cohabiting but probably too small
to cover my heat
from the helicopters.