there is a space between the dream
where emptiness is sewn;
cold fossils drawn up by a seam
connecting earth and bone.
a ghost taps poems upon a rock
to bake their valleys in the heat
small veins of milk, packed thick with chalk
casting white shadows on a sheet.
he mocks me by his flight
time is heavy; flesh is rock
blood is a lock built in the night
and set inside a clock.
from sanguine chambers banished,
a wrist draws a line of impasse
on the map of its own hand.
like this a life will languish:
a ghost inside an hourglass
suckling the bones of sand.