The Span Of Being

we concede to convex,
we recede to concave,
motionless frenzy envies decay,
sum of sun’s enervation and hex.

from the free form of disaster,
a single horn 
formed from a crown of thorns
alive at dawn
in spite of her history of nights,

a black swan,
a heart of crimson clay
where sculpture pulse is born.
forged by fire, sired by form;
an epilogue of spire and storm.

you, ointment culled from
the patina of a lock,
rust and heart, beet red
 - the heat of chrism
milked from clocks.

me, an anxious could-be,
head to flaw
an ancient no-thing
stalled, in thaw.

we, the spun sprawl of hands
upon a numbered face
an illusion begun 
through sum of pulse and pace,
an ancestry of carrion.