Mark Heathcote

Alone with her loneliness she'd placed
In a darkened segmented—basement:
Under her eyelids her impassionate prey.

Was had she not grown quite nauseate
Of being a moth beneath iron grates:
She'd long given-up on bat like wings.

But for her insular lusts of blood l tasted.
She'd have 'Love' stoppered affordably bottled.
Poured from; the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.

There her personifications of a nude fresco…
Lecherously, joining us; in this vampirism:
Would buttress against us; her kissing—

Sleepovers in a velvet casket of stars...
With her needs ancient as a pagan forest.
That longs for the starlight's faucet fix.

So her emotionalism's tap' runneth over …
As she reaches up from her foundations root:
Night butterflies fly-out: This daylights love
This daylights newly, amalgamated lover.