Ingathering my frail smocked son he says: don’t squeeze.

Absolution by poison has made him into papier maché;

They kill him then redress the balance,

Befuddle his blood to save the valved heart.

If the worst of life connives such weakness

How can I plot to sidestep

The slow grinding dust to dust

And graft my tissue to his

To make him new weighty again

Full of substance, begotten not made?

—Nicholas Wolf