Last, and: Peacetime, and: Reliquary

Last

God for a fortnight, pharaohtill the generator blows, then what?This week's most missed:the shipping forecast; showing off.Write alive in the meadowwith empty blue oil drums in caseclouds can read/stars give a shit.Two million years of shametakes some shucking off — I stillnip behind a wall to exude.

Mandrake prospers in the cracks.Corned beef and cling peaches again;note to self: start growing stuff.Along the station's oxidized tracksevery minute pulls in on time.Ripples on the lake: ditto, ditto.On the plus side my golf swing'sunrecognizable these days. Love is:an afternoon in the Glyptotekwith Madam Kalashnikov.

Peacetime

No one really believes those police barracksare student dorms. Through shuttered windowslate-night dog-walkers on the path through the woodshave glimpsed truncheons and braided capshanging on bedposts and bedroom doors,or heard raucous gypsy-bashing songsricocheting among sycamores.

The constables here carry revolversbut buy their own bullets;low wages keep the body count down,though like any citywith a history worth knowing the capital boastsgunshot holes plugged with chewing gumat chest height on the cathedral walls.

Reliquary

After the Friday market on the wharf,dark-eyed peasant women from the eastgo down on their hands and kneeswith knitting needles and bird-bill pliers,gleaning the quayside, flossing between cobbles

for dropped coins, lost keys and the like.Whatever they winkle out that isn't currencythey sell as trinkets and charms,spread them out on colorful headscarves and shawlsalong pavements and walls.

A rough translation: "Things that fellfrom the pockets of Christ." Meaning hairpins,buttons, a plastic spoon, a baby's tooth,even ring-pulls from cans of Fanta, offeredas wedding bands or knuckle dusters.