I gave my lady half my heart

a somewhat creepy poem while I work on some more left-brain stuff.

I gave my lady half my heart,

And she fled to the forest, trailing my snare.

I gave her half my heart and said

That the other would rot around her hoofprint, clinging like a glove.

Now in my room, dusk falling, I can light a candle, or a screen.

Each pulsing with its own horizons, like grass blades with the days;

Like gold oaks with long French summers,

Skyscrapers with the rain.

My rotten heart thumbs thick arrays,

Deep clusters, pages, and aborted things.

The racks of women and half-women

Twitch and flutter as I pass.

Her haunches, I must hope, still shudder in the thicket,

As the rain steps off the mountain,

And I turn a practised heel, snarling,

To walk the line again.