Fossils And Milk

fossil memory cracks its surface on heat,
from spine, from traces of a gaping jaw
in the middle of a stone
where ravens take a meal of meat
from the middle of the thaw,
pulling lost muscle from the 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.

love is an animal silently eating his lips
in the corner of his heart,
-an insatiate self-cannibal
mouldering in an eclipse,
chewing a smoldering penumbra apart.