Order.

For my Mother.

If it was ever exactly so--and if so that it appeared so, so

Likely was it then from the ideal to grow in error.

A hex, then, on your eyes--and mine, as if a hex upon the glare

Of a jewel--a hex therefore goes on the wearer.

But couch away a kiss for her, the birds and grasses

of her day who paused--and caused, and mothered it.

Her apron is seen thin, her perfume caught, but faint--

It's essence roams like thought (or memory lost in fragrant deposit.)

Once there came about in Order a familiar kind of neck I know--

One like mine in aspect--if better, and worse-exposed in my guesses.

The milk of the veins lies aglow, the pallor grows young on

The laboring, as the throat a pure secret or so holds close, and

Suppresses.