Harold Arnett

 I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
Weak from the noon-day heat.

A church bell sounded mournfully far away,
I heard the cry of a baby,
And the coughing of John Yarnell,
Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying,
Then the violent voice of my wife:
"Watch out, the potatoes are burning!"
I smelled them .
.
.
 then there was irresistible disgust.

I pulled the trigger .
.
.
 blackness .
.
.
 light .
.
.

Unspeakable regret .
.
.
 fumbling for the world again.

Too late! Thus I came here,
With lungs for breathing .
.
.
 one cannot breathe here with lungs,
Though one must breathe.
.
.
.
 Of what use is it
To rid one's self of the world,
When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?

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