the taming of the hourglass
The wolf's time slips, and hits its head
on divided rock, cracked earth.
The white pieces of her life fracture
and fall into the pond,
carried by the sands of blood.
The water is colored crimson
like the beating heart she took
from the fat solitary hare
on the blue eve of yesterday.
She had split his hourglass,
consumed his flesh, digested him
and his red sands
but left his ivory bones
to time rather than stomach.
His corpse had slid into the pond,
the same one she now slides into,
the same one where her hourglass ends
in black-red waters, next to wilted callas
where she will die under a glassy sky
and will rot under its morning sun.
It is the same sun that will feed callas,
the next fat hares and hungry wolves,
and all the wild, walking, breathing hourglasses
before their time cracks, and slips away
into the abyss of black ponds,
where their bodies will submerge
under death-white callas, in waiting roots.