Our wounds to time, from all the other times, <br />sea-times slow, the times of galaxies <br />fleeing, the dwarfs' dead times, <br />lessen so little that if here in his crude rimes <br />Henry them mentions, do not hold it, please, <br />for a putting of man down. <br /> <br />Ol' Marster, being bound you do your best <br />versus we coons, spare now a cagey John <br />a whilom bits that whip: <br />who'll tell your fortune, when you have confessed <br />whose & whose woundings—against the innocent stars <br />& remorseless seas— <br /> <br />—Are you radioactive, pal? —Pal, radioactive. <br />—Has you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal? <br />—Pal, I do. <br />—Did your gal leave you? —What do you think, pal? <br />—Is that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal? <br />—Yes, pal.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-51-our-wounds-to-time-from-all-the-ot/
