Something black somewhere in the vistas of his heart. <br /> <br />Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood <br />to be a tulip and desire no more <br />but water, but light, but air. <br />Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued, <br />& suffocation called, dream-whiskey'd pour <br />sirening. Rosy there <br /> <br />too fly my Phil & Ellen roses, pal. <br />Flesh-coloured men & women come & punt <br />under my windows. I rave <br />or grunt against it, from a flowerless land. <br />For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind <br />my clock before I shave. <br /> <br />Soon it will fall dark. Soon you'll see stars <br />you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing,— <br />compass live to the pencil-torch! <br />As still as his cadaver, Henry mars <br />this surface of an earth or other, feet south <br />eyes bleared west, waking to march.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-92-room-231-the-fourth-week/
