York’s Lord Gloucester, the royal realm’s Protector King Richard 3 for a couple of years: Before’s brother’s, Edward’s, son Could get the kingly sceptre, Entombed in London Tower’s walls With his playmate little brother, Despite their royal mother’s tears That she be their Protector.
Two factions Both without privilege, Without hope; Without the means To comprehend the Calamity that engulfs them. Each believes the other is the blight that consumes them, The other that no mirror could conceive.
Here’s no place for them wanting three-dimensional portraits. Too much irregularity here Weakness in disguise perhaps but true, True as jagged glass – Crash cymbal shocks the moon blue alcoholish mist Anaesthatizing the humdrum Like smoke cocooning Steel mills On a coal blue night.
What do I hear in the wind, a night cat’s cry, Branches banging black sky? A storm, a soul stirring, A fiery whirl round planets raging for war? Men mindless of planets and signs, in weather, See simply wind, rain: A natural disturbance. Perceiving neither metaphor nor meaning – The hand behind fortunes two faces … More Omen
The fact’s denied The grand demoted And every little embryo Reshaped Coded Structurally assimilated To satisfy the economic motive.
This air dry, Burning and clear Does not bite bone But warms gently, Skimming the skin It touches the heart.
Looking for time, We find him nowhere Watching clocks, nor near the sun’s way We may subdivide his tickings Till he’s scarcely more than air: He who gives dimension meaning And counting to his tether Makes infinity his contrary.