The house, the tide, the monster chasing me. It is all so constant. I spoke last night with someone I miss so terribly. But what can be done about such things? We both just need to live. We both just need to be brave.
I don't feel brave. I feel instead very unbrave and vulnerable. I inadvertently, unwantingly await my feet to kiss some emotional mindfield and that will be it. There is not much more I can do for myself. I need some kind of help. And I am always in a state of unrequited.
I watch a crane. The machine, not the animal. This crane is missing its object. And on that large hook I imagine my little heart dangling from it. The crane moves about looking for the space where it belongs. There is nothing. There is nowhere. There is no hole deep enough for my heart. There is no perceivable end in sight to this sadness. It is constant. It is the only lover I will likely ever know. And I simply have to accept it like one accepts any disability. So I keep a dream song, my dream song, so close to me since nothing else and no one is or can be close to me. John Berryman, you save me again today and will save me again tonight.
Dream Song #109, by John Berryman
She mentioned 'worthless' & he took it in,
degraded Henry, at the ebb of love --
O at the end of love --
in undershorts, with visitors, whereof
we can say their childlessness is ending. Love
finally took over,
after their two adopted: she has a month to go
and Henry has (perhaps) many months to go
until another Spring
wakens another Henry, with far to go;
far to go, pal.
My pussy-willow ceased. The tiger-lily dreamed.
All we dream, uncertain, in Syracuse & here
& there: dread we our loves, whereas the National Geographic
is on its way somewhere.
We're not. We're on our way to the little fair
and the cops & the flicks & the single flick
who'll solve our intolerable problem.
And I look tirelessly for my little fair, that little place for my little and insignificant heart ... as my pussy-willow truly ceases and my tiger-lily truly dreams.