The s-curved spine of attainted king
snakes up from parking lot.
Not Prospero, not quite
Macbeth. The plot’s the thing
for knucklebones. Woodvilles & Nevilles
in the nether woods – phosphorus
Warwick, glowing in the dust.
Someone’s gotta pay the bills
for Renaissance magnificence.
The wolfish gusto of these
alpha bêtes! Rimini’s
laird, Ezra’s ravening prince –
shades in the hollows of Sherwood,
old artifacts of violence.
How did we survive this?
How will we yet? Pappy understood,
somehow – head bowed with meekness
to a mud-stained plow.
All yang, no yin, was how
blind stick-up men went down. No sense
of the spider’s tensile teetering
with dewy tread, on thread...
black widow’s offspring (death’s-
head remonstrance for buccaneering
sports). Be with me, Columba,
bright dove-bird padre
from cloud-slopes of Eire.
Proud kings lie hidden in Iona’s hair.
Remains of King Richard III