Heather T

bare of branches



dappled sun masks pulseless veins

catch her shouldered corpses

the fiery fingers set the flame

her stunning molder

mocks the waiting worms

all her breathless lovers




of beautiful death

embrace the dark eventual


what is left


the harlot bares her branches

to eyes-wide biting night

where the crisp of bones fragment

beneath secret feet and lift

their dust howls in the truth

of autumn\'s moon


that cannot hide

below her scattering dress

this patient haunting

where their skeletons

moan lower

in some places




if you will dig me deep enough

you will find the moss damp

where I will only sleep

until panting winds

quicken me to twine

once more around your limbs


and rise


your vernal Lazarus