What is mud but brown blood?
What is mud but sand mixed with waters? What is clot but collagen-mixed plasma and cell? Hourglass sand sifts and driftingly flows downward, uninterrupted, until emptied. Hourglass, sand pretending to tick, tick, and tock, to be an hour or second hand, or second hand– borrowed– clots like blood and mud, spoiling the mood, blocking the time it mismeasured.
Time stops, blood’s lovely reprieve.
A straining hourglass, straining muck through its wasp-tight midsection, throttles. Opens up, full throttle, and flowing… It totters. The muck does flow, similar though not the same as sand. Reliable as time, quick it cuts to the quick,
What is a sundial made of clotted blood? A clot of the Nile flowing red seasonal, transcendental, flood.
What a life but mud fluidly mixed? Mud, clay, what the hey, or hay, or hay mixed with clay to make a brick, life somehow formed, fixed, as time, in fine blend, sand, through a sand dial or hour month, minute (teeny tiny) minute glass– itself sand– wishing a star to follow, a star to fall through the cracks of regulation of hour minute second speculation pass,
A star hourglass, tiny grains of star tickly spindle, falling through star glass, through a narrow morass.
River, On Any, are narrows, on any river, and there the current speeds. Clots break up, disperse, and in excitement, too much, the heart, which is muck, wrecked in havoc strain, begins to envy water– water in its veins. Not an embolism, or sugar mulch, or a young child, in a basket, on a river, a kayak, a canoe.
The mucky heart, feeling speeding stars, speeds after them.
Star bright, rain it down on river. Tach its cardia so clot and mud could use some light to trigger. To lodge a seed, to shiver. To feel a need, to deliver. To shock, to awe, to let a neon sign blare all hours, mud or asphalt street, small freshet water puddle, glimmer, freshet heart giver.
Spam of Human Affection 
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