John Berryman
THE LONG HOME
bulks where the barley blew, time out of mind
Of the sleepless Master. The barbered lawn
Far to a grey wall lounges, the birds are still.
Rising wind rucks from the sill
The slack brocade beside the old throne he dreams on.
The portraits' hands are blind.
Below these frames they strain on stones. He mumbles ...
Fathers who listen, what loves hear
Surfacing from the lightless past? He foams.
Stillness locks a hundred rooms.
Louts in a bar aloud, The People, sucking beer.
A barefoot kiss. Who trembles?
Peach bloom, sorb apple sucked in what fine year!
I am a wine, he wonders; when?
Am
I what I can do? My large white hands.
Boater
&
ascot, in grandstands
Coups. Concentrations of frightful cold, and then
Warm limbs below a pier.
The Master is sipping his identity.
Ardors
&
stars! Trash humped on trash.
The incorporated yacht, the campaign cheque
Signed one fall on the foredeck
Hard on a quarrel, to amaze the fool. Who brash
Hectored out some false plea?
Brownpaper-blind, his morning passions trailed
545
