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I N R I
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2002 Poetry gaping at a man before me
with only blood-tainted sheet
swathed around his waist--
looking beatific, his spread hands
showing the gleam of a dowel prodded
on each hand, his feet are placed
one after the other with a longer dowel
stinging deeply through his sole
they say he is a king
as he has a diadem signifying
a monarchical vein, but
this diadem is distinct from
the other diadems that i've seen
made not of pure gold, neither glazed
with golden hues nor garlanded
with diamonds and pearls
it looks more like fangs
burrowing his head
into
the sea of death
and so i asked myself
who gave you that circlet?
Is it I my Lord?
