Henry’s pelt was put on sundry walls Where it did much resemble Henry and Them persons was delighted. Especially his long & glowing tail By all them was admired, and visitors. They whistled: This
Bright-eyed & bushy tailed woke not Henry up. Bright though upon his workshop shone a vise Central, moved in While he was doing time down hospital And growing wise. He gave it the worst
The three men coming down the winter hill In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds At heel, through the arrangement of the trees, Past the five figures at the burning straw,
Welcome, grinned Henry, welcome, fifty-one! I never cared for fifty, when nothing got done. The hospitals were fun In certain ways, and an honour or so, But on the whole fifty was a mess
In a motion of night they massed nearer my post. I hummed a short blues. When the stars went out I studied my weapons system. Grenades, the portable rack, the yellow spout Of the
I consider a song will be as humming-bird Swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange As the world of anti-matter Where they are wondering: does time run backward— Which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple; But
Thin as a sheet his mother came to him During the screaming evenings after he did it, Touched F. J.’s dead hand. The parlour was dark, he was the first pall-bearer in, He gave
All we were going strong last night this time, The mosts were flying & the frozen daiquiris Were downing, supine on the floor lay Lise Listening to Schubert grievous & sublime, My head was
I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit, Just where, and when I had to, for deadlines. O I could learn to type standing, But isn’t it slim to be slumped off
She mentioned ‘worthless’ & he took it in, Degraded Henry, at the ebb of love— O at the end of love— In undershorts, with visitors, whereof We can say their childlessness is ending. Love
I heard said ‘Cats that walk by their wild lone’ But Henry had need of friends. They disappeared Shall I follow my dream? Clothes disappeared in a backward sliding, zones Shot into view, pocked,
All that hair flashing over the Atlantic, Henry’s girl’s gone. She’ll find Paris a sweet place As many times he did. She’s there now, having left yesterday. I held Her cousin’s hand, all innocence,
I don’t operate often. When I do, Persons take note. Nurses look amazed. They pale. The patient is brought back to life, or so. The reason I don’t do this more (I quote) Is:
In a state of chortle sin—once he reflected, Swilling tomato juice—live I, and did More than my thirstier years. To Hell then will it maul me? for good talk, And gripe of retail loss?
Let us suppose, valleys & such ago, One pal unwinding from his labours in One bar of Chicago And this did actually happen. This was so. And many graces are slipped, & many a
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