Floating on the midnight breeze.
No knock on the door.
and lips as blue as Keats’.
India’s Ophelia. No, not Ophelia.
Waiting for justice.
Iago feasts on flowers. He sails to New Amsterdam
in a golf cart, wearing aged spots
and bright green trousers.
Divine spirits beckon her unsullied soul:
‘Fly across the Gulf of Aden. Fly
over the Atlantic.
To fire and smoke, and seeping despair.
The sea is turning black.’
Scales and swords for fifteen thousand dark-haired lives
and generations in ruin.