consider these solipses:

measured, carried steeples 

round a brined Mary 

suspended in the plasma 

of hapless, desperate donors 

centrifugal refugees

all unknown behind glass

 

this is a king's country:

a throne grown too small 

phagocyclic in the flesh

bedsores in the shape of sin 

and

lead of goblets held within

 

my crucifix is a bullet

made from the marrow

of these monarchs

these loose lipped 

leaking monuments

to hubris

 

now

new necks thicken

under this weighty crown