I have had an image seared into me for years. I was still living married. We just had our son then. It was late at night, my wife was asleep, I was laying on the couch smoking my pipe and I read a reviewer write that reading a John Berryman poem he had an image of Berryman as a child, standing in the rain all alone in the middle of a street, crying. I stared at the page and broke out into a cold sweat. I felt nauseous. I got up and walked unsteadily to the kitchen trash can and threw the magazine away.
