Just a few months after Cathy Earnshaw kindly
drove Heathcliff ‘mad-
begging him to ‘just go’ and ‘rob a gold mine!,’
Heathcliff returns years in advance–not simply as
a thief or some pale white gypsy chewing
the leathery meat of a vulture–
but ‘an actual fiend’ out of an old Edwardian novel.
Francis bites into his light-brown Virginian cigar
and begins to tip-toe like our real Byronic
hero, stumbling ever so blindly down the tempestuous
halls and narrowing passages of Wuthering Heights.
When the Viennese police show up, they’ll find f. scott
ever so windingly in search
for a light as he mumbles out a few slippery slurs
about ‘actually being invited to this stupid party!’