Dream Song 153
by John Berryman
I'm cross with god who has wrecked this generation.
First he seized Ted, then Richard, Randall, and now Delmore.
In between he gorged on Sylvia Plath.
That was a first rate haul. He left alive
fools I could number like a kitchen knife
but Lowell he did not touch.
Somewhere the enterprise continues, not --
yellow the sun lies on the baby's blouse --
in Henry's staggered thought.
I suppose the word would be, we must submit.
Later.
I hang, and I will not be part of it.
A friend of Henry's contrasted God's career
with Mozart's, leaving Henry with nothing to say
but praise for a word so apt.
We suffer on a day, a day, a day.
And never again can come, like a man slapped,
news like this.
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Jon Corelis www.geocities.com/jgcorelis/
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