Mark Heathcote

A poem holds your hand
It whispers come gather
These windblown, fruits
Eat of this sun's lather.

The bee's stamens sting,
Is like a gloved fist.
And, like the poets pen!
Must die a little to coexist.

Vertigo, dizzies itself on a cleft
Like a blackbird in full song!
The chorus is short-lived:
But it's echoes are lifelong.