The lines are wired
The breeze is felt like velvet eruptions
Finally, a break in the patterns of light
And a ghost in the reflection
You find out that your death and your face have connections
The lines in your face seem to glow from the misological soap
As the summer comes
And the weeds and the grass elope

Something ties this face together
Olive oil turns leaves to feathers
Christ runs worldly crime and hate
Inside this field with iron gates
Even after teething abates and
Tithing prostrates a rise in weight
Your false words have fallen short and late

A look at my finest decorative knotting achievement, a collar I made for Dugan. The bulk of the collar is a double-edge plait. I invented knots to form each of the bear shapes. I then held my nose and stitched the bears to the braid.

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