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really, it’s just a scratch

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

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