Around the rough table
we eat with our hands
roast pig, cheese and bread,
roasted peppers. In the fields,
grapes rot in the grass,
and fill the sunset
With the smell of the end.
This season will not last long,
the table will be empty,
And we will pick at our teeth waiting.
Is this a blending of inspirations from harvests in Slavonia, dinner last night, and The Tudors? This time of year is filled with many distinct smells of the end.
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