Dream Song 29
By John Berryman
Saturday, March 9, 2019
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years,
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time,
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears,
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach
of.
Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late.
This is not for tears; thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up,
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
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