Consider the bigot, how he spins.
Yet I tell you that even Solomon
swathed in slave gold, rabid
with glory-spittle, cold iron gut, 
jingo-spinner for a Jewish nation,
yet I tell you that even
desperate Palestine not relinquishing
the "holy" from their holy war
against Solomon in his wisdom,
even Morocco's king, even Zaire's evil one
converting poverty into palaces
like papal palaces, so even
the trans-historical stupidity of popes,
so even in ridiculous Ireland
Gerry Adams with his cobwebbed
past, dead fly on a Protestant window-sill
in a Derry tenament, or even
pulpited Paisley, puffer-spider with 
poison sac cheeks, even everywhere
elsewhere the rich world's blind-legged
spinners, a bigotry of the blandly
demonic still crawling to the web's centre,
or dropping on their last thread, cut --
see the ghosts of spiders scurrying 
under history's counter of mercy --
for I tell you that even in their most glory,
their Savile Row suited human form,
too healthily pink in the face, 
lying under crystal, under plexiglass,
under the starry dome, even these 
only equal, only equal, only equal to 
the gravity of the careless in their deaths;  
dried flies blown off the window sill
by draught from the future's open door, 
even then a gravity equal to Solomon's
leaves shapeliness in the current of air.      

The East Village Poetry Web
Douglas Oliver