It is a sad thing to see one

Of the five Kings of Castlebar,

Who, having been brought to his

Knees by disease, has now

Been finished off with a swift

Heaving of the chainsaw.

All that is now intact

Are his great silver arms

Which are sleeved in the deep, thick

Moss, shadowing his gnarled

Fingers and creaking elbows,

Like beheaded Bercilak;

I am sitting in the crook

Of his vast elbow, telling him

About how I was brought low,

Not by a disease of the body,

But of the Spirit, and singing

Him songs about other kings. 

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Oh King of Castlebar, when I take a shard

Of your armor, see it not as the

Trophy of an enemy, but as the sign,

Like Hector’s armor, of a gift

To be returned to King Priam

By a young man full of grief, and confusion,

And rage.

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