The heavy-laden lilac leans and sways
toward the light blue-yellow wall. The May day
glories in its brilliance; old Hobo will have his say.
These words like sand that slips between my fingers
... those first words formed, those infant sounds
measuring the distance between lips and breast...
the welling O... orotund as gentle eyes that rest
on me, grant my whole body rest... so time rounds
home, rounds out of mind. So the muttering
of Everyman circles its secret sun - the word
like a primitive hunter, blinded by its own weird
mirroring (til General Davy sets Gem in a sling).
Homesick Eddy wanders empty Providence. Then
a green light stops him in his tracks. Some ghost
of springs long-gone (a-spiralling)... he hears a host
in sandy Frisco (bit by his own heart's shady evidence).
Beyond earthquake and fire, the approaching clip-clop
of apocalypse - the unspeakable plague of his tabloid
taboo has turned him (pearl-lined, clammy) inside-
out (twin magnetized Ligeia-orbs, under eclipse).
And hobo-poet stumbles, blind, his mother-wit
now branded on his brow. It wells from swollen
veins beneath the crust - cheap sour wine
gone vinegar, an infinite discomfort
roiling, rustling across his tongue - the fatal crown.
Touch of hot iron sears the whole mouth now.
So near, that solar flare - where a lone crow
(raving, pivoting southwest) tastes his renown.
Beginning final chapter of Fontegaia.