An h is just what it sounds,

always measures, and lists and counts.

An h is a hurricane hopping

a hill.

You are an h, begging

Hecate to hinder my will

to write a poem about h,

since you know,

an h is a homeless , this h is another

 h into h, hungry,

unfed by your  hundreds

passings by the h or the b or the z.

An h is a distant horizon,

Immeasurable space between

The polite and the informal you.

An h is only a letter, which crops

in Collins Thesaurus on page eighty two.