This was supposed to be a soliloquy
about Bertran de Born, a troubadour from
the twelfth century Limousin. I wanted to start
with his line about springtime pleasing him.
I wanted you to hear de Born like he was
Richard III or Coriolanus begrudging an aside
bloviating on all the pornographies of war—
beautiful buckram, helmets and hauberks,
waving gonfalons and brains greasing clubheads.