A few weeks ago I committed a mimicry of John Berryman. He’s dead, but was born one hundred years ago a few weeks ago. He’s dead, so he can’t hold this ditty against me.
It is Henry does what it wants
doesn’t it little dirty bones? But it
feels bad too so bad for becoming
so bad and boney. Or isn’t it true?
That then when Hen sees it makes
a poor performance of himself
with his hair parted elsewise and crooked
goes his smile, rerouted and a ripple
that keeps sprouting from the center
of a collision between a flattened stone
and a flattening water. Where are many
women dancing the maypole have Henry
come a-time to sea to loose his charm
and dalliance-ly sways.