(An after killing response to Robert Browings’ Porphyrias lover)
When I think of what to do,
she glides and ceases no sullen winds.
Now I mumble her yellow hair grew
around my hands enveloping knife’s kin.
she not to make my cheek lie thin
upon her white smooth shoulders’ frock.
I am yet to decipher to vex the night.
Will her tender little throat now mock,
as she decends to the heavens it’s alright.
God said she’s gone to fear no flight.