357

It is a pleasure to

Watch you speak in all your,

John Berryman, broken

Finery. Your greybeard,

Apronlike, hangs before :

Dispeptic mouth, sodden

Eyes. Drone of loveliness!

Flowering! Inchoate!

All your words abandon,

And then you read a verse.

Now—great, unbowed, raging,

Bloodlit, masterful—bring

You the music forth in

That toneless voice. In words

Their struggle be the beauty

Born. Woodsmoke curls itself

Slowly out of you. We

Are left, illogical,

At the border of our

Dull sense, feeling for your

Gloomy, substantial hand.

Still, in whatever dark

Comes, there is a notion

Of your tigerlike voice.