Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 197

The Murder of John S. Van Winkle and his Wife by a Robber in the Winter of 1850

He stole through the snow,
he stole in the night,
noiseless wheels crunching.
Walking wheels--walking, so
circular, a sine wave rolling
endlessly step after step--noiselessly
wheeling footsteps
toward an old housewife,
her husband, his house. There
to rob, with a chop, to end
Van Winkle's sleep with
a hatchet--a hatchet!--in a
sternum sounding

--curiously--

like a hatchet in a tree.

The Van Winkles awake, spill
and he steals back home
considering his wares as fallen
leaves.

gbs 10-16-06

Paterson: Book Four, Chapter III, p. 186-7

A song is now available for this poem on the Internet Archive!

The Murder of the Dutchman Jonafen Haring

Something's in
with the horses.
I hear it,
rising up
from dawn.

You will look
As you always look.

The sound of you
on cold steps
down and across
and so briefly in snow;
crunch, I listen
I listen
for you.

And then the
beating of hooves
the beating
of hooves
the beat-
ing of
hooves
on stone.
-------
Through the silence
of strangers
and torches
(four tories,
their judas)

past the entry
of my house
to horses
in darkness
away;

through waiting
on footsteps
in the hall,

a cold thought
will penetrate:

there is no virgin
beginning.

KMC 9-22-06