by John Berryman

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.