by John Berryman
There sat down， once， a thing on Henry's heart
s heavy， if he had a hundred years
more， weeping， sleepless1， 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 blur2 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 hacks3 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.
