The Room Poem by Mark Heathcote

A room of draft and shadow
of a cobweb tomorrow
and yesterdays of a thousand
-yesteryears yesterday's ago.
Fit me like a snail-shell
roaming around the gardens-well
oh, room of Grey December light
here my bones grow-dusty-light.
As light as darkness
in the night.
As light as a ceiling cave bat
with a hawk moth to bite
till it's dead, bit through.
Next to a cherry blood moon
I hover off the ground
like a creature that only comes out
after midnight and thank the stars up-above
for my life and a woman's heartless love,
and a room that fits me like a chainmail glove.