There’s nothing for it but to go out
There’s nothing for that but to layer up eighteen items
if you count each sock separately and include the mask
There’s nothing for that but to start to the whole process
by getting up off the lumpy couch and
walking to the freezing bathroom
nobody in their right mind would take a bath out there
for a last pee
There’s nothing for that but to stop making this list
and go out
There’s nothing for it but to go
up the hundred stairs
up the steep drive pocked by horse shit
and wasn’t the whole purpose of this to get away from that
across the bridge
past the last of the houses
along the now-frozen mud path
through the pasture gate
past the lamb-fat ewe congregation
holding their Zoom-less meeting
onto the Downs
where the icewind blows your face red
drifting snowflakes like reverse fireflies catch light from
sun breaks along the Southern horizon
to walk to the mock windmill
gloved hands aching with cold shoved into pockets creating
a shadow of you like a corndog on a stick
stretching Northward across the spiky grass
to stand against the fence with its one broken rail
and cry out God!!!
as if God from her magisterial observatory in the frozen sky
can see
you’ve walked all the way up here to utter that cry
can hear it
above the other mewling seagulls
ad quanta (insofar as)…
There’s nothing for it now
having spoken
but to turn back for town with the wind
flailing the hood from your parka like a half-deflated balloon
against your neck
Bap! Bap!
There’s nothing for it but to stop
right in the middle
up on the Downs
and shout Fuck!
as if God in his infinite disgust with Shitshow Humanity
would nod in solidarity
ad quanta…
There is a little kiosk down Southover Street
where you can move in a queue
to step inside while Theo
I kid you not that’s his name
creates a Feast and calls you by your name
here
take this pastry which I’m giving to you
take this flat white and drink of it
There’s nothing for it but to
unglove your hands
allow your tears to melt down your chapped face and
Do this.
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