Bury, man or: Not Henry’s Dream.

Harry,
Who was not Henry,
Had a dream.

Of a knoll, with a great willow
Branches all arrayed
In an umbrella of skeletal fingers

And a boy
And a girl
Set to work
One lassoing
Sparrows by the feet
With fishing line
And the other, tethering that cord to
Stakes and hammering them into the earth.

Harry was barefoot,
And thought the whole thing like
Algebra.

Incomprehensible in the extreme.

“Why are you harrying?” He asked.
“The birds? Said the girl.
“The birds” said the boy.
“If we are to be divorced from our nature, then why shouldn’t they” said the girl.

The sparrows flapped
And struggled against their bindings
Pulling at the earth
At the knoll about the willow
Screaming their frustration, even as the plot of land took to the sky.

Harry was still barefoot
And he would have marveled at the
Spectacle, but it was only a dream
And he had no shoes.

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