Henry hates the world. What the world to Henry

did will not bear thought.

Feeling no pain,

Henry stabbed his arm and wrote a letter

explaining how bad it had been

in this world.

Old yellow, in a gown

might have made a difference, ‘these lower beauties’,

and chartreuse could have mattered

“Kyoto, Toledo,

Benares—the holy cities—

and Cambridge shimmering do not make up

for, well, the horror of unlove,

nor south from Paris driving in the Spring

to Siena and on …”

Pulling together Henry, somber Henry

woofed at things.

Spry disappointments of men

and vicing adorable children

miserable women, Henry mastered, Henry

tasting all the secret bits of life.