In slack times visit I the violent dead <br />and pick their awful brains. Most seem to feel <br />nothing is secret more <br />to my disdain I find, when we who fled <br />cherish the knowings of both worlds, conceal <br />more, beat on the floor, <br /> <br />where Bhain is stagnant, dear of Henry's friends, <br />yellow with cancer, paper-thin, & bent <br />even in the hospital bed <br />racked with high hope, on whom death lay hands <br />in weeks, or Yeats in the London spring half-spent, <br />only the grand gift in his head <br /> <br />going for him, a seated ruin of a man <br />courteous to a junior, like one of the boarders, <br />or Dylan, with more to say <br />now there's no hurry, and we're all a clan. <br />You'd think off here one would be free from orders. <br />I didn't hear a single word. I obeyed.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-88-op-posth-no-11/
