I’m always eating meals consisting of porridge with barley, flax, wild seeds, occasionally fish, etc

I bought a Seamus Heaney book at an airport bookstore sometime around the year 2000, I think it was his Beowulf translation

Man I’m just born to be in it (peat)

Salty air traveling over the Jutland wetlands from the North Sea would provide an ideal environment for the growth of peat, which eventually rots and produces a vinegar-like substance known as “bog acid” which would preserve my soft tissues like a lovely mango pickle

This would be good

Give me a cloak and leave me alone

Root me

Without natural drainage channels, conditions would be almost completely anaerobic, further inhibiting decomposition

Layers of compacted irregular mosses and debris known as sphagnum would envelop my body in a cold immobilizing matrix, additionally conserving any clothing or leather items you might want to toss in there with me

I could hang onto whatever you wanted to place in my hands or wrap carefully around my torso for pretty much an indefinite period of time, no problem

Put me in the slow swamp

I wouldn’t even mind

The big cold wet of ending

This is where we sift history and get time damp

This way if anyone wanted to look at my mild closed eyes in 8000 years it would be pretty straightforward to do so

Juice me up with it

Put a hoard in, push the the torch down

Sink me in the freeze-frame dirt and give me a moss hat and I’ll wait out whatever

Ring around me cows to sleep sweetly under flowers

Lock me in a cart, mirror-top, Jörðward

Cognate me a muckish riverbed, slow as rivers get, bottom out to toponymics

Drape me, lock me away, quiet me, drop me drop me into the sweet rich dirt-work of bog-kenning

Gauls know how to die

Muck me into shoe-leather for the long miry sweep

Bog is cellar-water for storing leeks, roots, torcs, hoards, barrows, chariots, for needsome later

For wait and slow down, for the unhurry spin cycle of locked-in marsh

Press me at the nice big world-cow Auðumbla for licking away rime until we reach the beef jerky of God

It’s the best resting here

It’s the rich churning of soil and skin til I’m soft as yogurt, tan as suede, happy little underground shoe rocketing under-down

Thanks in advance for put me there

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