A knight rides into the noon
and his helmet points to the sun
and a thousand splintered suns
are the gaiety of his mail
the soles of his feet glitter
and his palms flash in reply
and under his crackling banner
he rides like a ship in sail

a knight rides into the noon
and his only eye is living
a lump of bitter jelly
set in a metal mask
betraying rags and tatters
that cling to the flesh beneath
and wear his nerves to ribbons
under the radiant casque

who will unhorse this rider
and free him from between
the walls of iron, the emblems
crushing his chest with their weight?
Will they defeat him gently,
or leave him hurled on the green
his rags and wounds still hidden
under the great breastplate?