In a blue series towards his sleepy eyes <br />they slid like wonder, women tall & small, <br />of every shape & size, <br />in many languages to lisp 'We do' <br />to Henry almost waking. What is the night at all, <br />his closed eyes beckon you. <br /> <br />In the Marriage of the Dead, a new routine, <br />he gasped his crowded vows past lids shut tight <br />and a-many rings fumbled on. <br />His coffin like Grand Central to the brim <br />filled up & emptied with the lapse of light. <br />Which one will waken him? <br /> <br />O she must startle like a fallen gown, <br />content with speech like an old sacrament <br />in deaf ears lying down, <br />blazing through darkness till he feels the cold <br />& blindness of his hopeless tenement <br />while his black arms unfold.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-89-op-posth-no-12/
