Wuthering Heights
The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a solider color.
But the only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as i step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heart away
If i pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep known where they are
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds
Gray as the wheather.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizpontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And the black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
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