The Memory of Barbarism is the Recollection of Virtue

Perhaps, when we the strangers in the bar’s blue light turn liberal, you’d claim fraternity or clan and say Detroit is turned American by the community of appetite. There was this hurried time of fear of the last bell, our sure prognostication it would be somber so soon to face a sky of December that impended on the light blue snow swell, when someone turned and told of Caucasian wheat fields, the harvest sun, a last effrontery. His father decapitates their Turkish master. The village is invested. No one yields. Then, you may know, the last round came, and with it pride. I swivelled round to face my own whiskey recalling anecdotes in turn of ancestral snowfields and running wolves and fireside.