Among the many-hatted secular set
Henry prevails, like the shrewd surprise
Vince delivered to the hard-hearted
French whore, her sensibility mock-frail
as the clip-board-attached-to-a-man
at Fresh Plus, who claims that love
is best kept hidden beneath a bushel
of boscs, or a peck of pickled prigs—
no one owns the sidewalk, though,
and Henry is free to come and go
from end to end according to his pure
intent, his keen rhomboidal sentience
an elliptical plea upon the deaf and blind
and multiplying. He is the god of alternative
headware. Urbanity wilts, under his feet.
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