He does not live here but it is the god. <br />A priest tools in a top his motorbike. <br />You do not enter. <br />Us the landscape circles hard abroad, <br />sunned, stone. Like calls, too low, to like. <br /> <br />One submachine-gun cleared the Durga Temple. <br /> <br />It is very dark here in this groping forth <br /> <br /> Gulp rhubarb for a guilty heart, <br />rhubarb for a free, if the world's sway <br />waives customs anywhere that far <br /> <br />Look on, without pure dismay. <br />Unable to account for itself. <br /> <br />The slave-girl folded her fan & turned on my air-condtioner. <br />The lemonade-machine made lemonade. <br />I made love, lolled, <br />my roundel lowered. I ache less. I purr. <br />—Mr Bones, you too advancer with your song, <br />muching of which are wrong.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-99-temples/
