I am the clocks hands;
the movements
first,
second,
and ever lastly.
Take to me your heart
cased not in glass
that every quark, gluon, and muon,
might cleave to me
as blue molten lead
riddles through fibrous and fatty drapes.
Press that furnace,
your folded and flaming tensions,
against my fields, my endless white planes
and burst into vapors my red veins.
Beat wings of cancer,
leper,
and decay,
and bring like the quick silver tide
half lives coursing our names.
original works of parts
