brian henry

Habitual Present

The era of orgies over for so long
we found ourselves squinting,
turning down the music the better
to listen
           or find. Nothing,
no matter how we tried
to hear. The past makes no sound
even as it knocks us around.
Exactly who was present when
and how we’d latched onto them
remains silent.
                   There is no witness.
No one will confess.
The only constant the hole(s)
turned inside out. (Nature adores
its empty spaces filled.)
The expanses we never had
the chance to bump across
must now be shriveled,
and the thought of taking up
with the old simply because they lived
through what we (okay, I) pine for …
Well, that’s fucked up and kind of sick.
Better to keep the many-limbed mass
in mind, our dick in hand.

The agèd orgy-goers will understand.