Again, his friend's death made the man sit still <br />and freeze inside—his daughter won first price— <br />his wife scowled over at him— <br />It seemed to be Hallowe'en. <br />His friend's death had been adjudged suicide, <br />which dangles a trail <br /> <br />longer than Henry's chill, longer than his loss <br />and longer than the letter that he wrote <br />that day to the widow <br />to find out what the hell had happened thus. <br />All souls converge upon a hopeless mote <br />tonight, as though <br /> <br />the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up <br />to say they cannot care, to say they abide <br />whatever is to come. <br />My air is flung with souls which will not stop <br />and among them hangs a soul that has not died <br />and refuses to come home.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-127-again-his-friend-s-death-made-the/
