Robert Bly

In Mourning for Betrayal

I am mourning a murder; one I have done.
I look through the window at telephone poles in water.

I reach for the notebook, and sit up in the train.
I turn on the light; I write out my vows.

The train goes on through Louisiana at night.
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.

The betrayer left the garden in the early spring night.
He fed on his own pity, and grew fat on that.

Orrin and his wife, asleep on bare mattresses,
Woke; I dream I put my head down between them and wept.

Pulling up from far below, the water is born,
Spreading white tomb-clothes on the rocky shore.