Westward, hit a low note, for a roarer lost <br />across the Sound but north from Bremerton, <br />hit a way down note. <br />And never cadenza again of flowers, or cost. <br />Him who could really do that cleared his throat <br />& staggered on. <br /> <br />The bluebells, pool-shallows, saluted his over-needs, <br />while the clouds growled, heh-heh, & snapped, & crashed. <br /> <br />No stunt he'll ever unflinch once more will fail <br />(O lucky fellow, eh Bones?)—drifted off upstairs, <br />downstairs, somewheres. <br />No more daily, trying to hit the head on the nail: <br />thirstless: without a think in his head: <br />back from wherever, with it said. <br /> <br />Hit a high long note, for a lover found <br />needing a lower into friendlier ground <br />to bug among worms no more <br />around um jungles where ah blurt 'What for?' <br />Weeds, too, he favoured as most men don't favour men. <br />The Garden Master's gone.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-18-a-strut-for-roethke/
