The Norton Anthology of English Renaissance
Drama sits wrapped like beef jerky
on a borrowed wooden shelf in my bedroom.
I am sure that somewhere within
that vacuum-sealed variorum
there are scenes and acts which would,
if I let them, expand my mind like popcorn,
but for now I am happy that their
thick British vowels, which I’ve always had
a hard time discerning, are cheerfully
packaged in sharp cornered cellophane.
Who knows what would happen if we let
them out too trustingly, Marlowe,
Jonson, and Webster pushing
sweet William beneath the bus.