Dream Song 89: Op. posth. no. 12
In a blue series towards his sleepy eyes
They slid like wonder, women tall & small,
Of every shape & size,
In many languages to lisp ‘We do’
To Henry almost waking. What is the night at all,
His closed eyes beckon you.
In the Marriage of the Dead, a new routine,
He gasped his crowded vows past lids shut tight
And a-many rings fumbled on.
His coffin like Grand Central to the brim
Filled up & emptied with the lapse of light.
Which one will waken him?
O she must startle like a fallen gown,
Content with speech like an old sacrament
In deaf ears lying down,
Blazing through darkness till he feels the cold
& blindness of his hopeless tenement
While his black arms unfold.
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