Poetry Archives

Into the night again he hurried, now
Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town
He set his goal.  And then he wondered how
Poor C. D. L. had come to die.  “It’s grown
Handy in killing, maybe, this I’ve bought,
And will work punctually.”  His sorrow fell
Upon his senses, shutting out all else.
Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought
The heavy miles away.  “Christine.  I’m well.
I’m coming.  My Own Wife!”  He lurched with failing pulse.