poem: heathcliff

come out of hatred

like a

bloom and a dark

peat bone rattling

over grays and

graves and

the gravity of it

 

because the lily is dead

your soul is dead, flown

away before ever

cleansed I can kiss the heather

over you but I find

a caste where

all the marble has drained down

a hillside

 

your tombstone is

softer than

your kindness your corpse

is richer to

my love;

strip off gentleman’s clothes and come

to dust

 

dark eyes stay dark and

bloom only a

fierceness in me i will

melt in you like

the rain