Dream Song 29

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There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart 
só 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.

And there is another thing he has in mind 
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, 
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; 
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing. 
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

© John Berryman