This is the story of his life he drew up around himself: it was invariable then that he would know just enough to get himself hanged.
He knew enough to ask her this.
But not enough to know that St. Augustine was off limits. Entirely. Be it town or theologian.
She turned against him then and there forevermore.
And anyway it was not Augustine in his mind but the madman with the sermons for birds because early on she had indicated her especial affinity for wings.
She said for instance she could abide the idea of cherubs.
Later it turned out he knew nothing which turned out much safer.
Angel is what they called their only child.
This is the story of his life he drew up around himself: Angel said Father I've married the Falconer and he was taken aback.
Your mother loved wings is what he thought and so it was what he thought to say:
I'll be relocating she said. A faraway look in her eye. As far away I'm afraid as a
Is what he said.
None of which is true but he said it over and over again.
As if it could replace all the things he hadn't known
and all the things too he had forgot
or ever lost.
This is the story of his life he drew up around himself: Angel said Father I've married the Wolfman and this time he knew what to expect.
She would tear up
and say she must go far away. Not because she wants to but because she has to. Love was a nothing he knew now turned out safer.
Which is not true.
Note: Kiki Petrosino has [written] that we poets of a certain age and sensibility—Gen X and maybe Y and whatever the next generation in line is called (though I suspect it's not Z); those of us inclined to "work in sequence," to "long, ravenous experiments in craft," etc.—all owe a debt to John Berryman, whether we care to acknowledge it or not. Yes. Well. I think she's right.