I knew a murderer, a long time ago, and eyeing for eyeing

   toothing for toothing—oh, yes!—murdered, in time, by the State,

a time I kept the vigil. Damned nice guy when you got to know him,

 

went to Killeen with him and to Vietnam , all that training, yes,

   he didn't kill anyone there, didn't call hardly anyone a Gook, just

read quietly, all day, every day, unless working, listening to dots

 

and dashes, ditty-bops, in the commo hut, Americal Division,

   2/20th, Chu Lai , Vietnam , Republic of, Calley's group. He was

gentle, with a ring of scars, ridged, on his shaved smooth scalp.

 

Successful guy years later, car dealership, richer than

   either you or I, married, big car, very quiet, head still sunk

in books except when selling cars or buying out other auto

 

dealerships. A quiet dealer, poetry in his soul, he fell

   from love and one day, a normal day, the kind of day when

all things being equal he would have read or reread books,

 

he'd become a collector—Victoriana—Browning, Tennyson,

   a little Clough, and, yes, Swinburne for his wilder moments,

all the Rossetti circle, a small Whistler hanging by his desk

 

though he did not own a single peacock feather—warm day,

   hot Texas sun blazing overhead, not like a wafer, no moment

of communion, the kind of day, when, when he has fallen out

 

of love and does not want to divide his art, his Tennysons,

   wants his Brownings safe at Baylor, his Christina to move in,

long white dress,—perhaps he isn't thinking straight—he's been

 

trained for this, not in subtlety. He'd stopped the day before,

   bought an AK-47, a magazine, gold-tipped bullets, just enough,

to do the job. It's what he's dreamed about. The scene is fresh,

 

and when she wanders in, he smiles, the action moves easily.

   A too large pattern, he thinks, should have zeroed in. He does not

see blood spatter on the wall, hardly hears her scream. He pulls

 

a copy of Oenone down, fingers the dark green cloth. He thinks

   he'll read a while and then go back to work. He sits in his favorite

Queen Anne chair, the Whistler near. He doesn't even know he cries.