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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse inspired by the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular on poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English, tutor composition, and lead a literary circle.


Dream Song 4

by John Berryman

Filling her compact & delicious body 
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me 
Fainting with interest, I hungered back 
and only the fact of her husband & four other people 
kept me from springing on her 

or falling at her little feet and crying 
'You are the hottest one for years of night 
Henry's dazed eyes have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon 
(despairing) my spumoni.--Sir Bones: is stuffed, 
de world, wif feeding girls. 

--Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes 
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is 
she sitting on, over there? 
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars. 
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry. 
--Mr. Bones: there is. 

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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