Fall
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. The baby hurls his breakfast at the wall. The vapours weep their burthen to the ground. The burthen hits the lino with a sound like porridge plopping on the tabletop. The baby's name is Cain. He ought to stop. Stop breathing. Now. Before he's got his teeth. Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. Especially a man whose name is Abel. Who now, aged two, is underneath the table, playing the keeper of his plastic sheep. The baby drivels and the vapours weep. Time does what it is good at and goes on, and after many a summer dies the swan. Eating. Sleeping. Eating. Sleeping. Eating. Repeating and repeating and repeating. The happy eater is his brother's keeper. The happy eater's not his brother's keeper. Discuss. Meanwhile, another supper's hurled here at the quiet limit of the world. The pudgy killer gains another pound. The vapours weep their burthen to the ground.
Michael Hulse
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