Mark. A Heathcote Poems

A wingless thing, naked and caged,
watches through a keyhole
all those what-could-have-been
flowering on the other side.
...

This silence is a physical braille,
a correspondence of touch finding each word,
that completes a sentence not yet fully written.
...

I've taken you to my heart.
I've seen what's left
when the wanting is done.
One night and no more —
...

I purchased the sun
and bit into it.
Juice running down my chin and neck.
A vagabond amongst the lost
...

My eight-year-old self running through dust motes of pollen
in a field of meadow flowers, asks
what beauty is ordinary when all matter is extraordinary?
What sunsets don't need to feel regret, don't need to feel remiss,
...

Returning home then and now
One street that still nauseatingly
smells of gluhwein and diesel
And the sound of hundreds of baubles
...

Occupation: exterminator.
It wasn't meant to be a finality
It was meant to mark my first breath —
a father who fought to hold his pen
...

As long as you hold my hand
I'll be safe inside my stencil case,
I'll not be a liability,
I'll be quiet and submissive
...

Tall tales have always interested me.

Like a grandfather's stories of catching his Sunday dinner,
a goose with floating bread on a fishing line,
...

Generally, I tip the scales
and bad guys avoid looking into my kohl midnight eyes,
afraid of what they'll find there —
a scent of hibiscus, a closing flower.
...