IV The neighbour

In the morning the radio clears its throat. The air fulminates with the debris of the world.

I disappear under a cloud of duvet. In one hand a pen in the other a shovel.

I bury my shredded prophecies in earth black as the Old Testament. They are gifts to the season and the worms, which recite and gnaw them chapter and verse.

Over the fence my neighbour is digging around, her eyes green as seed potatoes thrown under a hedge of hair. They stare at the freshly dug funereal earth. Her lipstick is molten lava.

Her fork carries fire as if it were a gift from God.

Both of us wait for the eruption of spring.