John Berryman

Dream Song 34

 Next Poem          

My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide
in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried
to his trigger-digit, pal.
He should not have done that, but, I guess,
he didn't feel the best, Sister,--felt less
and more about less than us . . . ?

Now--tell me, my love, if you recall
the dove light after dawn at the island and all--
here is the story, Jack:
he verbed for forty years, very enough,
& shot & buckt--and, baby, there was of
schist but small there (some).

Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack
of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back--
in the taxi too, sick--
silent--it's so I broke down here, in his mind
whose sire as mine one same way--I refuse,
hoping the guy go home.

Next Poem 

 Back to
John Berryman