Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks—rage, blow.
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till steeples drown;
oak-cleaving thunderbolts lace the rigging with cold light.
Lear scales the steel; white hair whips like tattered banners aloft.
“For I am every inch a king,” he cries, cloak unfurling,
then corkscrews through the violet storm—
the Tornillo of King Lear.
Canvas buckles, crowns splinter;
“Singe my white head” brands the mat with fire.
Silence pins three daughters,
and the tempest keeps the count.