Henry, edged, decidedly, made up stories
lighting the past of Henry, of his glorious
present, and his hoaries,
all the bight heals he tamped - - Euphoria,
Mr Bones, euphoria. Fate clobber all.
- Hand me back my crawl,
condign Heaven. Tighten into a ball
elongate and valved Henry. Tuck him peace.
Render him sightless,
or ruin at high rate his crampon focus,
wipe out his need. Reduce him to the rest of us.
- But, Bones, you is that.
- I cannot remember. I am going away.
There was something in my dream about a Cat,
which fought and sang.
Something about a lyre, an island. Unstrung.
Linked to the land at low tide. Cables fray.
Thank you for everything.
Berryman, Dream Songs: