Page 40 - flying stones

as you, my friend, my right front tooth

as you, my friend, my right front tooth,

vanish into a bucket of waste,
I imagine you grinning through my beard,

see you ripping and gnawing.

a fossil of a Neanderthal,
gnashing uncooked antler still dripping fat

fresh upon a crude, smoking stake.

I am not an ordinary man made sad of memory!

I will not quiver at the loss of your arrow
so well sent upon my careless aim.

You gave me bone against stone
so that I could partake. Now go

with all other myths, set afloat,
lit by the moon and flickering candles,

to drift on my Viking wake.