A poem by John Berryman | dG1fa21VdVNrSW5kTG8
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00:00 There sat down once a thing on Henry's heart, so heavy, if he had a hundred years, and more,
00:22 and weeping, sleepless. In all them time, Henry could not make good. Starts again always
00:39 in Henry's ears, the little cough somewhere, odor, a chime. And there is another thing
00:55 he has in mind. Like a grave seeing his face, a thousand years, would fail to blur the still
01:09 reproach of. Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say, too late. This is
01:30 not for tears. Thinking. But, never did Henry as he thought he did, end any, and hex her
01:50 body up, and hide the pieces where they may be found. He knows. He went over every one,
02:02 and nobody's missing. Often he reckons in the dawn, the morn. Nobody is ever missing.
02:14 End