Dream Song 29 Mimic

Mimics are funnn. I tried to copy and paste John Berryman's Dream Song 29 here but it wouldn't let me...I've done a few Dream Song mimics and they are great, I highly recommend trying it out.

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart só heavy, if he had a hundred years & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time Henry could not make good. Starts again always in Henry's ears the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime. And there is another thing he has in mind like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; thinking. But never did Henry, as he thought he did, end anyone and hacks her body up and hide the pieces, where they may be found. He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing. Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up. Nobody is ever missing. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of.  Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late.  This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

---

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of.  Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late.  This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

---

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

A little something crouched there on Charlie's inside
a little something so big
no nothing of everything ever
could he make something go.
Churning always behind Charlie's teeth
the something itched and scratched and ached.

And there is another littlebig something latched to the roof
of his mouth like sunken gold glued to the ocean
that no time could pull free. Blankly,
with cheeks bulging, he sits, stopped.
The sizzle of singed skin says: gone. This
goes on as something crawls.

When did Charlie, when he thought he didn't
dig it up and tear it apart
and with his teeth store it away.
He checked counted cold all gone.
It drags him awake to see such empty.
Something pulls free and in.