“I may shovel the wet bog peat abroad at Closh into your mouth, dig my sleán down into the darkness where grandfather buried the milk jugs. I may swaddle the body— all bodies deserve a dutiful end. I may spit on your mummified face, lay you deep in the folds of earth and freezing water, (this way lies preservation). Here, we must part company. I may leave you to your eternal legacy: the past gushing to your mouth beneath my feet. In time, you'll be flushed out by this river, coming and going as it does, without warning.” (41 A Hex Poem ‘For a Man I Do Not Greatly Admire’)