Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north, <br />I have nothing to say except that it dapples my floor <br />and it would dapple me <br />if I lay on that floor, as-well-forthwith <br />I have done, trying well to mount a thought <br />not carelessly <br /> <br />in times forgotten, except by the New York Times <br />which can't forget. There is always the morgue. <br />There are men in the morgue. <br />These men have access. Sleepless, in position, <br />they dream the past forever <br />Colossal in the dawn comes the second light <br /> <br />we do all die, in the floor, in the morgue <br />and we must die forever, c'est la mort <br />a heady brilliance <br />the ultimate gloire <br />post-mach, probably in underwear <br />as we met each other once.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-123-daples-my-floor-the-eastern-sun-m/
