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