______________________________________
Dream
Song 57
By
John Berryman
In
a state of chortle sin—once he reflected,
swilling
tomato juice—live I, and did
more
than my thirstier years.
To
Hell then will it maul me? for good talk,
and
gripe of retail loss? I dare say not.
I
don’t thínk there’s that place
save
sullen here, wherefrom she flies tonight
retrieving
her whole body, which I need.
I
recall a ’coon treed,
flashlights,
& barks, and I was in that tree,
and
something can (has) been said for sobriety
but
very little.
The
guns. Ah, darling, it was late for me,
midnight,
at seven. How in famished youth
could
I foresee Henry’s sweet seed
unspent
across so flying barren ground,
where
would my loves dislimn whose dogs abound?
I
fell out of that tree.
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