Blood is a strange thing - like hunger, or the
Distance between her eyes and his tight fist,
Or the rain still battering down, breaking
Lead gutters away from castle walls. Mist

Coats the castle from the outside in. It
Rests against the dungeon door, a witness
To this blasphemous act: he mutilates,
She moans - aroused by the brutal quickness

Of his hands, the smell of tears and blood
And the vitreous body unbodied
From Gloucester's eyes. This is their last embrace:
A kiss, a carnal smile - their love bodied

Into the weave of interlaced fingers
Or else the blood beneath. Somebody screams.