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Dream Song 108: Sixteen below. Our care like stranded hulls

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Written by John Berryman

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 Sixteen below.
Our care like stranded hulls litter all day our little Avenues.
It was 28 below.
No one goes anywhere.
Fabulous calls to duty clank.
Icy dungeons, though, have much to mention to you.
At Harvard & Yale must Pussy-cat be heard in the dead of winter when we must be sad and feel by the weather had.
Chrysanthemums crest, far way, in the Emperor's garden and, whenever we are, we must beg always pardon Pardon was the word.
Pardon was the only word, in ferocious cold like Asiatic prisons, where we live and strive and strive to forgive.
Melted my honey, summers ago.
I told her true & summer things.
She leaned an ear in my direction, here.


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