Blood Pudding

“Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” –Kierkegaard.

And now,
after all that,
things threaten to begin again.

Blood pudding
boiling into solvent, quickening
rivers, feeding that
splintered muscle just now
remembering the responsibility
of pulse.

Bone and muscle and
gristle and sinew –

and grey matter too –

all almost too weary now,
facing the impending passage
of their long,
indolent choice.

And every inhalation a new old dream.

After all that,
why tremble at the good news?

Why so nervously consider
the artifacts of disappointment;
the latest appropriate behaviour;
the open, wounded memory that,

should it end tomorrow,
at least it will end free?

[for Roddy McManus]

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