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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Who knows
but that your infuriating head might only be full of fervent questions where once there was desire, feverish, like a summer swamp-born disease; but now, spoiled hay. And you will slave like a mindless thing in your grim Germanic winter garden full of stolid brassicas, oblivious as a mummified man without a pulse- crucified like a mummers' messiah, but grey and sour, tainted with mould and its toxic spores. Should I try to blindly unsleave your outstretched arms, pinioned, as they are, against the extremes of leaving and longing, or clumsily unsheath the torso, now winter-flaccid and over-stuffed with last summer's straw, all that I would find would be two stakes held together with an X of twine where, once, the belly-knot of your ripe fixation was bound.
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