The death of John Berryman in slow motion

We open on a frozen river

(the spot where the poet has arranged to meet death).

The whiteness is blinding.

The glare hurts our eyes.

From somewhere above he jumps.

We see the shadow first

seeping into the ice

like a bruise. Thickening.

There is no sound but the wind

skulking beneath the bridge.

Now the body comes into shot.

Falling, blurred, a ragged bearskin.

The shadow opens its arms to greet it.

The wind is holding its breath.

We freeze frame at the moment of impact

(noting the look of surprise on the poet’s face).

We then pan slowly upwards

to the grey Minnesota sky.

Fade to black.