Dream No. 14

After John Berryman

Don’t dare, you, turn that corner.
Too late: look, its already been done.
Some damn fool has creased the page.
That 'Rette Maddox, he knew this poem.
Me, I think he marked this one
his self lazing one day at the library.

Everette spoke this once, an eruption--
sprung up suddenly from a drunken nap,
for no reason except perfection.
At least that’s what I’ve read.
I for one weren't there for that
and can’t ask him since he’s dead.

Dat Mr. Bones: he’d be OK
(for 'Rette's sake) if I bent it again--
good and hard--and left it that way,
made it part of Maddox's posterity
down here, since they keep his poems
all locked up at the downtown library.

I moved the long blog comment into comments below, which explains what this poem is about. I guess if it needs an explanation, that's a problem. Since I mostly write for myself in this journal, perhaps it isn't. Read the poem, and read the long comment, and tell me if I've succeeded in what I was about.