In my head the news comes

Across the radio

Wafting through

The ordinary work—

Washing, mending, sorting

Clothes pinned to lines in the sun

While the reporters tell overlapping stories

Of a man amidst the mob

Soldiers plaiting thorns

World,

Your King has come

Naked, silent, broken, abused, mocked, slandered, burned in the fire

For my place,

I take the ordinary

thorns

Plait a crown

Just to push into farthest edge of the terrible howl

He takes for us