Since you got to behead
each
              hollyhock crown

              with your round
              guillotine

              of a mouth―

I hope you get to spin inside your
               paper house.

              Emerge Noctuidae,
              owlet moth, 

              laying your eggs in leaves at night.
    
That you might finish your stitch―

Replicate yourself in time so you are
              always present―

              each egg a deposit―

              an echo-pearl of “you” along time’s string―

That my soul might be allowed
              to flourish―

Make a success
              of threading flesh, to participate 

              again in time, on 

              long arcs between sets of plunge, even though
                            it hurt―

                            to be born and die―

                            it loved to ride
                                          the point

                                          of the needle―