Skip to main content



In the next room

tapping the stone

wall, messaging


you; I too am in



and long for you;



hours, days;  the decades

lose distinction.

Let us meet in some

corner of the Gardens;

the graveyard next door,

at 1: it’s better


in the morning; never

a soul ever dare

tread that dead

ground. A voyeur,

maybe with an ear

to the ground.



Buried here

are the heretics, Yes! and if

you bend…your ear

over the tombstone,

here…you hear the dead sigh

like the wind in the wood:

the mournful Suicides;


but turn now…your hands

upon my shoulders, O. Look,

the lovelorn sodomites

fff, those dogs hot upon

the burning sands; and

the older men wend

more gracefully.



dig the earth

with your fingernails.


17 August 2015.

note – part 3 makes references to the Inferno.

One thought to “Rubble”

Leave a Reply

Yes No