The Great Gadsby Story - Part Three

John Berryman's poem is about a wild storm of the baying dark. The bedclothes whip like flags to kites because they're going high into the air. And for me, the high light of that whole chunk and next nothing, water ticking. If to night, if a hurricane should rip the roof right off, these walls spin out like playing cards across the tracks. Often, that horrible feeling of leakage, of brokenness, and that's all that's left after this storm.