Raindrops curve in their multitudes across
the windowpane. And on the retina,
the image of your tears. Camera obscura,
lonely room, long watch – the crumbling moss
of manuscripts. Lazarus almost
turns back (dragged by iron ball, silence).
Heavy toes tromp gaily toward an intense
yet empty canyon (some coyote jest).
There are lead mines in the Amazon. Teddy
resolved to be a bear for bravery.
It was not El Dorado, but compunctions
of the scullery, upwelled his sanguine eye.
Horse-sense, in a sense. The jockeying
knights joculant. A chivalrous dominion.
Character, my son, my son! Spent millions
magnify the milling around a ring
of blue spontaneous corncobs (in Kentucky).
Hobo remembers, Lazarus too renumbers:
the squads of backs of letters, the gang members
along a tarred and faltering highway.
Someone swings a scythe, opulent shadow.
Draconian sway – the way a chameleon
mimics a lemon (soft – a round someone
in the sweep of your eye, under a windrow).
I'm freezing, Edith, in this fever place.
The stars don't go together, and the mail
is slow. Just wave your arm, smile.
Be a nine, San Juan. Draw tight your trace.
More from Rest Note. Don't ask me what I'm doing. "Edith" refers to the wife of TR, among others.