On Hamlet’s flute old bones of Elsinoreshook and shuckered up the gravesthey died and dyed the earth in.With chaps on stops, chapfallen teenin weatherbell black taunts uncle, friend,and motheraunt—a rumspringed Jocasta.“With a carved thing I’ve driven you upand with a carved thing I’ll drive youback down.” Springs and stops golike Loki to his sons—animal call,an imitative call. Like one to loveis a screw, rejoindering a passagedoorto the knave, shut and shutteredfor one quarter of a quintery, made toskull again with the forefinger darkand the purple-pinkpout lips of princes.Is dark dark with no splotch? And islight light with no speck? Sound soundwith no late grype of cabinet doors?Life life with no battered blood-bodkin?The craftsman in the city made thismade a deathbone. Things promisedand privies whistled.
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