Our wounds to time, from all the other times,
sea-times slow, the times of galaxies
fleeing, the dwarfs’ dead times,
lessen so little that if here in his crude rimes
Henry them mentions, do not hold it, please,
for a putting of man down.
Ol’ Marster, being bound you do your best
versus we coons, spare now a cagey John
a whilom bits that whip:
who’ll tell your fortune, when you have confessed
whose & whose woundingsâ?”against the innocent stars
& remorseless seasâ?”
â?”Are you radioactive, pal? â?”Pal, radioactive.
â?”Has you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal?
â?”Pal, I do.
â?”Did your gal leave you? â?”What do you think, pal?
â?”Is that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal?
â?”Yes, pal.
(John Berryman)
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