What of the Prince of Denmark, how he too turned
his flesh to food, fading like his father
from the filthy streets where he was born?

Why go to Cyprus or Tangiers, dance
through the markets that hide behind a cloud of dust
meat and incense, feel the smooth silk blowing in the wind?

Shall we too load our pockets
with stones and move forcefully into the current
only to be forgiven by our fathers?

Did he hear the whorl rising from her cry like a dog
envisioning its prey in a faint scent,
dreaming of burying her bones behind the door?