Clark's job is rough on the brow.
An accountant's eyes move straight
up and down the rows in the books
the way in chess the rooks
mount the queen's defense.  Too late.
Had Clark a queen, she'd be in check.
This rook has slept, has dozed
on the ledger.  Will he keep
his rendezvous tonight
with Lana?  Hedge your bets.
To the head of the hero now:

      WAKING FROM THE DREAM

            Brood on the blood
            on the arrows in your quill!
            (So close, yet so far apart.)
            Puss of crushed petals
            on the daffodils,
            spears from your eyes
            cut out her heart...

      ... Ow!  With a start awoken,
      feeling like I've broken
      out of a long fall.
      That dream again -- not since Pa died --
      but a different one.  Not Lana.  Not red,
      but... Black hair.  Whose?
      Whose face intrudes?  Who dares?

      Sweating again -- stopped
      with the dream's debut -- and,
      that smell.  Me?  My breath?
      No.  Not me, not here.  The smell of death
      from without, flame and oil
      and visions of Hell.
      Need to go, have to care.
      Dream's truth time will tell,
      if I dare inquire.  I will, but first
      it's time to quench that fire's thirst.

See how the hero swiftly goes,
how he doesn't miss a beat?
See the swift hero, see him go
quick to an inferno's heat.