There are
more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
than bones, roses. There are windows
through which gaunt faces peer
and there are children
running through great doors.
Consider
how the sea roars mournfully at the edge of
all things, how the seaweed
hangs at the sailor’s neck, the crab
shuffles in armour, Horatio,
the punctual dead visit us, rise
bird-voiced from the grass,
and the owls
are scholars of the woods.
Horatio, I remember
a kingdom and a kingdom’s diplomat,
a girl floating tenderly down stream,
a crown on her young head.
These are portents, warnings, ominous
reflections from the mirror.
Horatio
my eyes darken. Tragedy is
nothing but churned foam.
I wave to you
from this secure and leafy entrance,
this wooden
door on which I bump my head,
this moment and then,
that.