Muse Cookbook

this formula is as formless as the shadow
cast by the scapula of a sparrow
angling sin against the skin of angels,
spinning the milk of marrow.

here, i am drawing blood
over painted veins;
a blue impasto flood
under monotone remains.

every fracture 
raptures at the rupture;
the free form of disaster
defines an alabaster blast of sound

and where those sculptures were
we draw songs from the ground 
 -all as flawed as any metaphor
for the eyes of Thea.