The nineteenth century of the bizarre
system of dates the Christians have
stands almost empty. Everybody
who helped design the first of the World
Wars is dead, no longer doing much
to anybody; likewise most of the begetters
and settlers-up of the next. They’ve got
clean away. And so on.
Turnips, four short rows, but enough.
Potatoes, plenty. Kale. For surplus
baby tomatoes, a jar with olive oil
an inch deep over the fruit,
then topped off with aqua vitae,
to rest on the oil and guard it. And
seal tight. And look forward
to winter. Ordinary life,
‘restorable’ ‘normal’ ‘life’ – paraffin,
pepper, fingers that stroke and grip –
sits in the brain like the supreme contemptuous
coinage of disease, nothing more
than a counter devised for murderers to bargain with.