Highgate Lines

other graves:

When the season of mists
falls sublime into the laps of
skeletons, I trace and retrace
like a finger on an engraved tomb
the memory of certain fingers
wrapped in mine,
of footsteps over graves-
the death of love signified by
a setting sun, unseen through the clouds.

deep burning

I sit,
a gardener of graves,
a man with  a stone thumb.
I am
the seldom-seeing eye
gripping the bones.
I was the marrow,
and now I am become a spur.


I do not write enough to be a poet
Nor think enough to be a philosopher
Nor sing enough to be an angel
Nor turn enough to be a cog.
I do not exist enough to be myself,
Yet am too much to claim my wraith-hood.
I am a hole in the air,
a thoughtful vacuum.

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