from #29 / by John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
Sort of like a GPS, only minutely different.
from Conjuring Roethke / by James Tate
I wish you were here.
The calendar is red,
a candle closes
If this is the life
we are all leaving
it’s half as bad.
Hello again mad turnip.
Let’s tango together
down to the clear