A still-bare delta of branching limbs
in light March rain. Tributaries
flecked with tiny green flotillas.
Something pulsing through those stems
redeems the worn-out winter grass,
trash-dotted ground. Old unshaven
hung-over hobo season! Even pavement
sprouts your weedy wanderlust (en-masse).
A momentary pirhouette. 10, 9, 8...
two billion years from now, the galaxies
Andromeda and Milky Way (say stargazers)
will marry, merge. Black-hole checkmate.
The End. So let Hobo unfold his hand.
A pocket-size apocalypse (poco al poco,
loco pard). He'll only marry Mocha
Midge, his loony star - her wedding band
but a wavelength long (blood orange to
dark honey milk). Twin doubtful wraith
those two will plait - a ghostly path
across Lethe - wrung out of range
of deepest light (one copper penny
pays the fare). And we were there,
fair witnesses. It's in the air,
maroon, marine - in Magdalen's keen
cleaving to your fate. A way of seeing
April blindly home; a copper wight's green
calibration, tightening a Pvt. No One's
skull. You paid in full, O Revenant (beaming).
Fontegaia Space Odyssey.