And yet I find myself able, at this deep point,
to carry out my duties; I lecture, I write.
I am even lecturing well,
I threw two chairs the janitors had piled
on the podium to the floor of the lecture hall:
the students were amazed

it was good for them, action in the midst of thought,
an angry Zen touch, something not written down
except in the diaries
of the unknown devoted ones of the 115:
'Master Henry is approaching his limit.'
A little more whiskey please.

A little more whiskey please. Something's gotta give
either in edgy Henry or the environment:
the conflict cannot last,
I soothe myself with, though for 50 years
the war's made headlines. Waiting for fall
and the cold fogs thereof
in delicious Ireland.