Were rampant on all sides, and now
The unseasonable weather
Killed the last hope of any good
To come. Thus Nithard’s Brüderkrieg,
Circa 843 CE,
Out of Gabriele and Perry,
With the wry note, Nithard himself
Was killed in a Viking raid, just
After writing as much, adding
That, If words ever had disgust,
You can feel them there. Can you? Can
You feel us? Can we have disgust?
Nithard and the Vikings are gone
As the Carolingians, gone
As any creatures living then.
Only a few old trees survive.
If there’s anything left, it’s us.
Nithard himself, to you, is us.
The Vikings, likewise, mostly us.
How do we feel about this thought
Of whether or not you feel us?
Any disgust we feel’s for us,
Or is it only cued by us
And therefore forever for you?
Yes. At best, you feel you in us,
Your worlds’ ends, your hopes for the good
To come. Not us. We’ve no disgust,
Except insofar as disgust
Is one of us. What do we feel?
We feel for how to move through you
To more you, before we're all dust.
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