“This is the way that it is done,”
Tends the father fixing
Words squarely onto
The tip of your tongue
Til you’ve lost your eyes
Created in the image of
With the weight of garment
Which personas had worn
It’s the promise to fix in post
Image cut from the cloth
Wearing out on you
Ask your garment
Who beats a horse
Resurrected, again–again–again
Dear doctor with no remorse
Love, is this love,
Tired, coughing, up, mother's feathers
Waiting—why!—waiting for return to,
“I know what is love’s worth.”