Henry burned for it.
Sometimes he took it in one mythical gulp,
Imagining himself astride a mist-hatted mountain,
Moisture rutting and nesting in the
Gopher-holes, striking crevasses, frozen waves
Of his romantic beard, while a winking warmth
Bivouacked on a sheer esophageal cliff,
Contemplating the summit. Sublime on sublime,
He would have said to no one in particular,
Were he able to speak.
Other times he sipped and sipped and sipped-
A bitter-ender, it was in his blood, and
Here and there a silent, heaving laugh, a smart quip
Suggesting uncertain depths beneath the bearded slab,
But was there? Really?
Henry could have told you, Mr. Bones,
When he was twenty-
When he was forty-
But now? In this day and age, with all we know, Mr. Bones?
Don’t torture the man.
After an evening of sips
Henry would stride from the room
And yearn to slurp, noodley and soft and belly-up
Into an open sewer main.
Most mornings Henry contemplated
Shotguns, very long and very old ones,
And the dexterity of his toes.
On those mornings Henry still burned,
Alone and in his one-lamped room,
Dreaming in the crystalline morning light
Of flying over the Aeonian mount,
Gliding like Icarus over the ruddy dissolute swill-swillers.
And this felt like a pure fire, a cleansing fire, a redeeming fire.
Henry wept.
But still Henry burned for that, if not this then that,
If not that then this.
Henry was Henry indeed.
Henry burned for it