If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert) <br />while snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew <br />so many all nothing, <br />for lead & fire, it's not we would assert <br />particulars, but animal; cats mew, <br />horses scream, man sing. <br /> <br />Or: men pslam. Man palms his ears and moans. <br />Death is a German expert. Scrambling, sitting, <br />spattering, we hurry. <br />I try to. Odd & trivial, atones <br />somehow for my escape a bullet splitting <br />my trod-on instep, fiery. <br /> <br />The cantor bubbled, rattled. The Temple burned. <br />Lurch with me! phantoms of Varshava. Slop! <br />When I used to be, <br />who haunted, stumbling, sewers, my sacked shop, <br />roofs, a dis-world ai! Death was a German <br />home-country.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-41-if-we-sang-in-the-wood-and-death-i/
