i once wanted

now, there’s a title/

i once wanted/

to write a book called

THE ONES WHO LEFT/

and then, i realized

that was all of them

and it would be a

very long novel walking

the dark moors at night

with heathcliff and

i would have a candle

lantern as i bumbled

and stumbled toward

the phosphorescent

surf tinged blue below

the rocks and i would

have stolen heathcliff’s

jeans, too, and he/

wore/

no underwear as i do

not wear underpants

and i do it so my cock

rubs stiff like disfigurement

resurrects repairability

they could not/

could not/

repair themselves which

has to be why i loved them

especially the one who

still lives in nova scotia

on the rainy days when

the rigging of his midnight

ship becomes an apparatus

of the muslin moon/