John Berryman Poems

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Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You're in the clear.
'Nobody' (Mark says you said) 'is ever found out.'
I figure you were right,
having as Henry got away with murder
for long. Some jarred clock tell me it's late,
not for you who went straight

but for the lorn. Our roof is lefted off
lately: the shooter, and the bourbon man,
and then you got tired.
I'm afraid that's it. I figure you with love,
lifey, deathy, but I have a little sense
the rest of us are fired

or fired: be with us: we will blow our best,
our sad wil riffs come easy in that case,
thinking you over,
knowing you resting, who was reborn to rest,
your gorgeous sentence is done. Nothing's the same,
sir,—taking cover.

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