Last night I saw him pacing the graveyard,
a corpse riding upon his shoulders—
she was reining him to and fro, so very hard
that he wrung his hands, longing to withhold hers.
He turned and ambled as if he was a fine saddlebred
trotting to the steady whip of his dead wife,
for he had broken her heart, roaming bed to bed,
and so she had broken him in, from the afterlife.
They found him, dead, the very next day
hanging from the graveyard’s new yew tree,
his neck noosed so he could no longer stray
from the woman who was now his one and only.