When Othello found his wife at a  loss
for words that might appease him and gain her

freedom from his hold, the crowd saw  better
what would happen. Iago had tricked his boss
with horrid skill, thrown fringed shadows across
his mind, made him Desdemona’s killer.
Now, there are hand marks only upon her:
they and his suicide render our pause.

Iago’s come. A falling of angels
that flies along the landscape, chillingly,
whispers spurs into the ears of leaders,
conjuring up the drone that soon mangles,
displaces hundreds to suit a lunacy:
scans those in flight for horror-scope feeders.