Whatever Comes Through Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

I sleep in the roots of your heart
Under the canopy of your soul,
Gazing up at a litany of blackbirds and lanterns,
dreaming of a white deer
at the edge of the known world, peering in.

My lungs ache like a door latched on springs.
My mind a cobweb stretched between gate posts,
dew-strung,
a tripwire
for whatever comes through.

Asks the question
who are you
Wearing daisy chains
There's no defense attorney
Required here, all the prisoners walk out barefoot on the lawn,
removing the fig leaf.