Secreting salt scintilla
into the cascading waist of time,
a caged phantom burns each slip to ore.

in the grip of smoking lingua,
a cold clock melts down its chime,
welding tolls around the door.

with skeletal ache disturbing her pose,
the dreamer awakens to stumble and weep
through gossamer sheets of birdlime and rose,
threaded from muslin of unraveled sleep.

from sanguine chambers banished,
a wrist draws a line of impasse
on the map of its own hand.

like this my heart has languished:
a ghost inside an hourglass
suckling the bones of sand.