Henry Riﬂe was an American poet, who, for a brief time in the early part of this century (21st), bestrode the stage like a minor colossus . . . before ultimately fading like the echo of a gunshot into the dullish roar of history. Not long afterwards, his travels took him out to Hollywood, and then on to old Mexico, where he met a somewhat untimely demise.
The American poet Henry Rifle is dead. You could remember him as the guy who fell in a hail of bullets launched his way by a Mexican firing squad. Or you could remember him for his poems and the charitable work he liked to tell people he did. Undoubtedly, he would prefer the latter. He might especially appreciate it if you remembered him for his last collection of poems — Ballistics Report.