At evensong he says he has
little patience for politics, the give-
and-take of weasels, ignoble
swordsmen parrying, thrusting,
looking, for minuscule openings
in milky armor, then lunging
ahead for the joyous kill.

At midnight revels, with much patience
he expounds upon her many faults,
enumerating a litany of pointed logic
that speeds to her milky breast and
thrusts through, leaving so gaping
a hole that even love escapes
in his bloodless coup.

Poetry Magazine