Funeral clothes were still lying draped,
dark and liquid on the bed, at hand when you died,
but all I wear is you, my bear-skin coat.
You're musty and warm, weighing down my arm
when I reach for my guitar, hampering my chest
if I move too fast, brushing my face,
like a lion’s mane. Your fur-lined cap
is all round my head, keeping out cold,
your heart on my sleeve. I shrug on your jacket
when I leave, pressing in to its suede,
rough, ready, Davy Crockett caramel.
I can’t take you off and you'll never wear out,
only ride on my shoulders, borne forever in my mind.
For all I owe you, for all you are, this is enough.

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Photograph by Konrad Lenz