It’s nothing, whatever happens,
and it’s better for me
to be like nothing, less
than a shadow. It won’t matter.
But who knows how her flowers
grow…now; in my cellar. There’s
wine and the dank air blends
fine with the cold salted meats
stone and brick and bread that’s
hard and good to eat, and death
like the remnants of a pig
hung and quartered.
Indeed, I did swing
upon that hour, hated
by the angels and their enemies,
and I fell like a dead man falls.
29 October 2015