A mist of steel thickens until:
a man's breastplate shines.
His musket sniffs snake-like.
Cromwell's tongue wriggles
in this form’s skull as light
from that day passes through.
Across one cheek a streak
of pig's blood; this anoints
his law-wrought face.
In his fading eye a chip
of lust rings its ache
through England’s centuries.
A mist of steel thins:
a man's breastplate corrodes.
His skull darkens like old silver.