A burial dress, hand-stitched virus of what we are—you’re so cynical.
Imagine it isn’t only clothes. Say you build watches & have something to prove.

You wind it up & start it counting back from center. Sure, it’s theological,
but with even less imagination & even more equation or machine.

But there’s beauty pieced & tripping through the balance of what’s made intentional.
& you wish they could ignore it—that nagging tic that says the coils are about to spring.