I walked through a park, bursts of hand-clapping kept exploding behind me. I finally identified a Tourette-ey man bobbing around in a suit, face clenched in concentration, his clapping was interspersed with lamp-post-tapping and tree-kissing.
I made straight for the big fig tree, clipped off a few of it's new sappy leaves and stuffed them down the front of my vest so that the figgy scent could waft around me for the rest of the day.
The Dream Songs as Epic.
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As I said back in 2014, John Berryman is one of my favorite American poets,
and I welcome the imminent appearance of Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream
Songs...
6 hours ago