An apple arc'd toward Kleitos; whose great King <br />wroth & of wine did study where his sword, <br />sneaked away, might be . . . <br />with swollen lids staggered up and clung <br />dim to the cloth of gold. An un-Greek word <br />blister, to him guard, <br /> <br />and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted. Ha, <br />they hustle Clitus out; by another door, <br />loaded, crowds he back in <br />who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax ah <br />grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore <br />for weapons. For the sin: <br /> <br />little it is gross Henry has to say. <br />The King heaved. Pluckt out, the ax-end would <br />he jab in his sole throat. <br />As if an end. A baby, the guard may <br />squire him to his apartments. Weeping & blood <br />wound round his one friend.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-33-an-apple-arc-d-toward-kleitos-whos/
