Am I like your mad Raskolnikov,
     bloody iron, flower, fist, bestial wail over sad blue bruised legs
          coins scattered silver and gold under pillows and hidden in sagging mattresses
          the shucks sighing in whispers with every breath and blink of eyes?

Am I light reflected in the back of those dark eyes filled with madness and the frost from those Petersburg winters;
          do icicles hang from your beard now?

My Sonia was never a whore but she too keeps tears locked in a charm hanging from a chain around her neck,

My Duna was the homecoming queen but writes beatific verse when the eyes are not looking,

Blood is on my hands too, but I used no axe and my murder was unmindful

I sit shuddering, unable to close the open window through which cold rain falls on my feet;

And the world spun more wildly when the black veil was passed over your eyes and the coffin closed.