I wish I could tell you how deepthe suck goes,how dark it is and holy,its tragedies siloed. They dotthe landscape, with oxen, mud-hooved,and crows.Shakespearean but boiled-down,a thick gravy, oversalted,served on white bread, day-old,sold cheap at the bakery outlet.It broods on the woodland edge,morbidly forested and bottle green,fermented in swamp, dung, skunk,and bridled by sorcery, potions,Bible school puppetry, ogres, fairies,poorly rendered papier-mâchégood and bad Samaritans.Kept awake by raw, honest terrors,eviction dreams, half-consciousfantasies of terrible mothers wieldinghatchets, but oddlyfree, like a free lunch is free,or a vacant lot, or a stinkweedbouquet. Just sit with it as
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