Heather T

hate me love



this slippered tongue lies 

beneath thin cotton evidence

and the callous of a stare


that somewhere dream of me

where you love with all your hate

it keeps your fingers honest


confronted with the mouth

of these quickly melting jeans

and all the zippered things


that should have been whispered

madly pebble in the braille

of your slick-lipped circles


dying little damp deaths

of clothes-puddled conscience

burning in this heaven


for all of haloed hell