Condemned to look after the long necks by Maximilian the swans of Bruges flock and glide. Neck stretched, wings wide, flapping arm breakers they snoot at humans passing by, ears pinging with guided tour smarts. I see swans in Bruges. Swans and crosses and the Holy Blood.
Maximilian lost his best friend Langhal (‘long neck’) beheaded with a guillotine in front of his prison haus. Maximilian had his revenge. This cockpit of Europe, steeped in the blood sloshed marshes and Ypres mud.
It rains hard. There is the Groeninge museum and the dark churches lit with burning light. We give ourselves as votive charms to see ourselves right.
Benign Indifference 
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