—How are you?—Fine, fine. (I have tears unshed.
There is here near the bottom of my chest
a loop of cold, on the right.
A thing hurts somewhere up left in my head.
I have a gang of old sins unconfessed.
I shovel out of sight

a-many ills else, I might mention too,
such as her leaving and my hopeless book.
No more of that, my friend.
It’s good of you to ask and) How are you?
(Music comes painful as a happy look
to a system nearing an end

or an empty question slides to a standstill
while the drums increase inside an empty skull
and the whole matter breaks down
or would it would, had left Henry left his will
but that went sideways sprawling, collapsed & dull.)
How are you, I say with a frown.