John Berryman Poems

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I heard, could be, a Hey there from the wing,
and I went on: Miss Bessie soundin good
that one, that night of all,
I feelin fari myself, taxes & things
seem to be back in line, like everybody should
and nobody in the snow on call

so, as I say, the house is given hell
to Yellow Dog, I blowin like it too
and Bessie always do
when she make a very big sound—after, well,
no sound—I see she totterin—I cross which stage
even at Henry's age

in 2-3 seconds: then we wait and see.
I hear strange horns, Pinetop he hit some chords,
Charlie start Empty Bed,
they all come hangin Christmas on some tree
after trees thrown out—sick-house's white birds',
black to the birds instead.

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