Disengaged, bloody, Henry rose from the shell

where in theior racing start his seat got wedged

under his knifing knees,

he did it on the runners, feathering,

being bow, catching no crab. The ridges were sore

& tore chamois. It was not done with ease.

So Henry was a hero, malgré lui,

that day, for blundering; until & after the coach

said this & which to him.

That happy day, whenas the pregnant back

of Number Two returned, and he’d no choice

but to make for it room.

Therefore he rowed rowed rowed. They did not win.

Forever in the winning & losing since

of his own crew, or rather

in the weird regattas of this afterworld,

cheer for the foe. He sat himself to time

the blue father.