Baited Sonnet
I’m waiting still for that message, the howl-
ing red one from Paris, sans attachment.
I get so much junk, I can’t but scowl
while clicking crap away. Take this apartment,
delete all traces of me, and what’s left?
The place could have satellite TV,
not just cable. No disposal here, I laughed
after trimming the calf into the sink.
Before I slurped it out, I paused for a drink.
And you were, where were you this hour o’ need?
On foot / by car / by bus / by train / online?
By where / what plane? Before / by whose design?
To flout us is to flout yourself, that past.
(At least there’s air.) To write, to embrace that past.
About the Author
Brian Henry’s most recent books are The Stripping Point and In the Unlikely Event of a Water. His translation of Tomaz Salamun’s Woods and Chalices appeared in these pages earlier this year.
