Aasté, wardboy, aasté

“I say through glass. I smell blood,
someone else’e— her husband’s—who’s down in the mouth, but lets nurse
lean her needle in. I’m told its inflow will make her strong, fuse the
anchors she’s thrown into one. Since we no longer get her drift, please,
god of healing, don’t dilly-dally nor click in boredom your tongue.
Throw your weight on that anchor and make it stick.”