All The Horoscopes Fall Down (In The Lap Of John Berryman)

John Berryman, I found myself sitting on the concrete step
Reading a collection of your poetry
A mine of your thoughts on Henry and Bones
Waiting for my ride to leave her office
It was raining, I suppose you might have liked the divine water
Coming from the misunderstood heaven
I was dry on those steps
Watching the birds fly against the grey
I read of your elixir, I read of your thoughts
My thoughts were of stews and disguises
My fingers ran down your yellow pages
My eyes ran down your stains
In judgement, in rapture, in on your secret
You see, John Berryman, I believe in you
I believe in your soul, your guilt, your pleasure
I believe in your heterosexual mortality
I found myself sitting on that stairwell
Watching the horoscopes fall down into your lap
Watching the leaves turn into the rotting flesh of Autumn
The students of the university running
Their shoes leaving magnificent craters in brown mud
These young men and women just like those who you would have taught
Less bibles, more microchips, equal number of suicides
I often think of you as a poet, as a husband, as a lonely man
A traveler trying to recall a long forgotten Lorca poem
A lover trying a little too hard
Drunk, brilliant and never foreseeing the future
A future in which I would find myself sitting on a concrete step
Reading a collection of your work
Your words on Henry and Bones, girls and others
And I sigh as all the horoscopes fall down
Tonight we drink to you John Berryman
Tonight we drink to you