Henry Hanes

Henry Hanes is a little man
Stooped from sitting like a stone,
Smoothed from purging out the pain
That an old man wears on his collar bone.

When the caverned night is long and damp
He pulls the moss above his head
And dreams beneath the black light lamp
Until he sleeps in nothingness.

When he awakes in his mother’s house
The lichens have sapped his soul’s remorse:
Dead birthlove cannot arouse
A clinging selfishness and curse.