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VENICE, 182<br />
White & blue my breathing lady leans<br />
across me in the first light, so we kiss.<br />
The corners of her eyes are white. I miss,<br />
renew. She means<br />
to smother me thro' years of this.<br />
Hell chill young widows in the heel of night —<br />
perduring loves, melody's thrusting, press<br />
flush with the soft skin, whence they sprung! back. Less<br />
ecstasy might<br />
save us for speech & politeness.<br />
I hear her howl now, and I slam my eyes<br />
against the glowing face. Foul morning-cheese<br />
stands fair compared to love. On waspish knees<br />
our pasts surprise<br />
and plead us livid. Now she frees<br />
a heavy lock was pulling..I kiss it,<br />
lifting my hopeless lids — and all trace<br />
of passion's vanisht from her eyes & face,<br />
the lip I bit<br />
is bluer, a blackhead at the base<br />
of her smooth nose looks sullenly at me,<br />
we look at each other in entire despair,<br />
her eyes are swimming by mine, and I swear<br />
sobbing quickly<br />
we are in love. The light hurts. 'There..'<br />
John Berryman<br />
(in "His Thought Made Pockets")<br />
140
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