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.
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.