What I know is waywardness. My eyes
linger in the roadside sumac and the locust
leaves. Desire to lose myself is just
the way it is - no need to summarize
the summer haze. I long for this.
I lengthen into absent vacant lots.
One Crane equals a thousand Eliots.
One Henry swings his chariot of bliss
into Rock Candy Mountain Paradise.
Here Hobo turns suspicion into cellophane
(queer questings into knotholes, via pristine
phlogiston of embattled campfires). Nice. Ice.
He seeks to save a face, it seems.
Not his own, anymore (too late for that);
somebody he knew once - maybe just a cat.
Pushkin's in the grave now, suddenly (dreaming).
I buried him the other day, still warm
and silky-plush. Nine lives
numbered (under grass). Restive
iteration toward sundown. (Inchworm).
In the elliptical pattern of nine orbits
love reverts upon itself. It shines
in the candle-power of a what millions
of whatnesses. Or witnesses. It fits -
this hollowness (a mirror-pond). The face
Hobo longs for hovers in an afterglow...
nowhere to lay his head. An undertow,
a bent reality (of love misplaced).
more from Rest Note (Book 2) :