3963. IT WAS MY MATTER

IT WAS MY MATTER

(madness again)

Stabat Mater Dolorosa, prime factional dispute,

incarnated absolutism, phantom limbs and fireworks

too. My Father God Almighty, we are living now for

nothing at all. I walked the heath, tasted fresh water,

drank all the raw milk from your cows. In Norway, I

swabbed the circular barn with blue paint from a pail

the foreman had given, never saying a word I stayed

to my task. The river was running frozen, and all those

ladies had lost their nerve. We chased down the

tortured rocks, recall? Out peat fire hinged on your

looming disaster. Four new Kings from the outer

lands kept us company for three long days.

-

And now, the loving respite having summoned my

soul, I lounge back and think of your daughter  -  yes,

yes, the fairest one, with that twinkle in her eyes and

her face. Her hirsute boyfriend, I can still see him

too, leering at me like some engineer on a badly

running train; looking down at the rails beneath

him, trying to see what passes, and how.