Our Way-Would Calling? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Star pulsed, lover.
Whose heart is a purple emperor?
Teased out of a milk-white flower
Churned into curds and whey,
Whose rosy, nothingness
In conclave-owlets flicker
Does-in-turn lead us away?

Shouldn't I who am, lassoed, plunge talons?
Like a dandelion root
Shouldn't I blow with these waxing suns?
Shouldn't I beak-split tear-apart
Her gossamer: She; whom hemp's a moon.
Shouldn't I be the one who?
With tapper alights her inert womb.

Simply put, shouldn't I dive for pearls?
Or pan loves untold-gold: No, I just won't
Or can't be led - foolhardy downstream
"Or be so cold or so dishonestly, headstrong.
No, I shall walk faithfully loyal full-stop."
Besides you beside, deaths black-dog,
On-leash as if I was just newly born.

Like-some-kind of cocksure bullfrog
Isn't this and that? The way of it all
Star pulsed, lovers.
The way a poet's tongue must rock
Isn't this and that? Our way-would calling?
God, willing we-won't-all-be summonsed
Or subpoenaed; for that one last regret.