This appeared in Angle.
Henry has disappeared, a man who mowed,
Unleaved the gutters, recovered falling trim,
Unturned no stone, and left no hole behind.
Everything takes his place, whose clothes were grit
And grass, and there is sun enough for all.
Hence scant despair. The Henriad is made
Curtal; the solo myth of sorts is saved
And spent on robins, maybe, and the brown
Spinners who walked out of his new-trimmed bush,
Patient and outraged, made to start again.
The past has passed. They spin a yarn so fine,
Henry may be inside, in visible
Distress. He's moved. Or Henry is just gone.
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