Berryman Falls

Yr reaching skyward & trying not to stumble
into 70ft of pure fucking nothing, until
everything stops & all that is left are yr words.
Did’ya see this coming? Did Henry? He left
already. Thinking – you know that. Cold steel
under hands, then feet & then finally, quiet.

As you lay beneath the early morning
break of the avian cacophony, circlin' &
crowin' at yr failed baptism.
First-on-the-scene men in suits, frowning
at the broken riverbank crumbling ‘round
the remains of yr broken verse.

The Mississippi is tired, & sighs along
a pace closer to yr shattered pocket-watch.
Half-torn notebooks showering rocks,
mixed with mud to create papier-mâché
visions of yr ex-wives, & maybe
Henry – or only Henry.

(Edited (again) to fix a few things. This poem is inspired by the death of John Berryman and uses some of the techniques found in his collection '77 Dream Songs' where the name Henry is also from)

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