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Breakfast in the Country
Critical Perspectives on Accounting (1998) 9, 711 Article No. pa980312
Breakfast in the Country As the intelligence of the sun’s dust Irradiates a night’s unholy murmurs, Our unparticular days are found crumbling On tables spread with artificially white linen. A yellow curl melts, oils carcinogenic-brown Slices, we eat E472(e), E322, E270, E160(a). There are, of course, esoteric and imprecise Associations, the inner dimension of the place Where I sit—ostensibly point five of one meter From open space between table and pink-painted wall, On a seat that once grew leaves. But few eat with me And see the uncommon grace, prehistory winging On formative streams of air that we could share And become all that we have ever been—beat By beat our eyes pulse out this rhythm. Through the window, we all have turned to see A heron fall through burning clods of air Where the sterile fields choke on an alien ritual. The heart has shrivelled in the body of the land And in return there sucks the chemical womb, The hunchback gene and each unparticular day Gorging to meet. Someone is laughing At teaspoons dissolving in our cups.
© 1998 Frank Birkin
711
Breakfast in the Country As the intelligence of the sun’s dust Irradiates a night’s unholy murmurs, Our unparticular days are found crumbling On tables spread with artificially white linen. A yellow curl melts, oils carcinogenic-brown Slices, we eat E472(e), E322, E270, E160(a). There are, of course, esoteric and imprecise Associations, the inner dimension of the place Where I sit—ostensibly point five of one meter From open space between table and pink-painted wall, On a seat that once grew leaves. But few eat with me And see the uncommon grace, prehistory winging On formative streams of air that we could share And become all that we have ever been—beat By beat our eyes pulse out this rhythm. Through the window, we all have turned to see A heron fall through burning clods of air Where the sterile fields choke on an alien ritual. The heart has shrivelled in the body of the land And in return there sucks the chemical womb, The hunchback gene and each unparticular day Gorging to meet. Someone is laughing At teaspoons dissolving in our cups.
© 1998 Frank Birkin
711