At the Gables

As I traced a path through November folly 

I fell in love with melancholy, 

My passions pooled from an uncommon spring 

By brush, the birch: by besom, I sweep. 

Oh, love of loves under winter shrub 

Below drabs ov dirth - to hell, I dug. 

By bone which bore beech along catkins falling, 

This dirge ov my speech - to my last name's palling. 

Its darkness enshrouded, ov known journey while walking, 

By the brightest light, coughing up silver waters. 

I dream those dreams beyond cosmic pulse 

To revolt those days in memories I loathe. 

From the name first called from forward hopping 

To the mound, to the clay, on the sandstone markings. 

Tomorrow, tomorrow.. I abhor to no end, 

Welcoming the evening while wishing the mornings would end. 

Burnt bramble turned ocre • as the gables closed in 

The wild trampling of the Thoroughbreds 

Where the heart once caved in. 

Bolstering the timbers, from a match field's struck wick 

To ride on the flame of lightning's white kiss, 

West Virginia water on Kentucky coal lips, 

Pensieve is the prison where Lambeth thoughts sit. 

Fahrenheit the mind — as the warden flips the switch 

I leave at no gallow a love worth to mention. 

I'm the horse that rode off with you attached to a cinch 

Through the hollows and groves, 

Dragging your corpse through this field. 

I started with love, yet, here we are again. 

Condemned in the same space at the place it drew breath 

From a passion roared river together in death. 

By the fire ov the spark and a spark ov no less. 

By the devil ov tongue, a devil no less.