Arch Alfred McKillen enlisted into the US Army during the Second World War and became a bookseller. He published his lone collection of poems The Death of the Scharnhorst and other Poems, by Arch Alfred McKillen in 1942.
If only you can thank the August rain,/The road trips with false lovers,/
The unflattering mirrors, the ditched playgrounds…
My dusky body, the mortal flame of a light./I lie between the goblets of my old days,/Between the twilight glory of birth…
Tonight, let me write!/Let me write/Of the hopeful eyes/And the desperate souls,/Of the severed limbs,/And the silenced songs,
I went sleepless and troubled/ Hiding under my pallid skin/As a thick blanket of darkness/Enveloped the starless night.
The first flutter the first brush, the butterflies the blood rush./I looked away as you did too, me not knowing what to do/
Yet glance at your house I did, hoping I will see you too.
After the burial is over, he reaches the riverbend. A bird seems to arrive from nowhere, its wings flailing the water.
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