The moors’ scrubland grows without you, babe
tainted by death, you’re unable to
walk it. Dysphoric bliss causes me to
continue to live with a noose hanging over me
craving some retribution, to become at home
with the moors, purple, away from us, the
chalky grassland of where we both live
with mouse-bones buried beneath it
to love you, was to love the Northern
countryside. You dream, as you sleep, babe
a world that stretched beyond Yorkshire’s
burials, to love was to love you and to be
friends was to be friends with you. You
are a dream made of flesh. What you will
teach me is a persistent argument against the
universe. Sometimes when I sleep,
I hear a snare drum sound.
It sounds twice.
There’s never anybody there.