Henry in the Land of Moira

Spark his tongue with a sharp quill
rub his eyelid, taste his dust,
a mundane conversation
of screaming wind & slanted rain,
rare but not unknown
on the edge of the desert,
many a rose will bend & fall
before u wake to a poem,

inbetween the boiling thoughts,
Henry on his knees in the tilled dirt
moist hands kneading his thighs
over his brightly woven robe.
The thunder rolls away.

Henry set out
early in the morning
and on the third day, arrived;

just as we have done,
stepping sidewise by the silent moon.
Ice cold spring
to awaken a sleepy boy.

Henry might cough,
stare at the cold ground
rub his beard
where the night bugs have burrowed.

No choice but obedience
and the whole wretched day
spent in the dust and frowns
of stagnant rock,

in the distance
the new sentence may invoke ancient verbs,
boiling clouds which rise behind the mountain
carry thunder,
and the dagger in Henry's belt
bites his thigh which each awkward step.