And On a Day Soon There are the shit days, purely that, (not the catastrophe as when a life’s work’s taken out —fire to the back door, worse, ashes by morning— but just the smiling grind of them), those days of sleet with its knives as you kneel with a ewe, all the mechanics of birth when grief’s wrapped in it, elbows caught, a tongue blubbered thick from a head flopping against the arse of its mother: the dismemberment, the smell, the anger that you were too late or the bitch went down where you couldn’t get her. …
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