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

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