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 backwardâ€”
which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;
but can Henry write it?
Wreckt, in deep danger, he shook once his head,
returning to meditation.
And word had sped
all from the farthest West
that Henry was desired: can he get free
of the hanging menace, & this all, and go?
He doesn't think so.
Therefore he shakes and he will sing no more,
much less a song as fast as said, as light,
so deep, so flexing.
He may, rehearsing, here of his bad year
at the very end, in squalor, ill, outside.
â€”Happy New Year, Mr Bones.
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