The peaceful evening out of which the poem comes
or maybe doesn’t – the special quiet of the poem’s
own hum imposed upon squawky cacophonics (home
street home) of yon triple-deckered, cumbersome
dronopolis (I mean the poem of Providence)...
the quiet of homesick willow-violin, its wayward,
solitary hobo tune... what’s at the heart of it,
Edward? Figment of sister-dove flown hence,
mayhap – melodifying on her spiral Jonah-horn
between the dry ribs of a dead grey world-whale
somewhere (my heart, my heart). Hear, O Israel!
The chariot of Elijah & the steeds thereof – worn
like a bracelet round her Sabbath-tambourine!
Waltzing menorah! Footstep of Shekinah,
Bride... ancient familial concert-pal... J-
bird (furtive, always in flight). Has-been
Hobo’s will-be (again... again). ‘Member her...
Like a dream of the Gateway, she comes
from nowhere, some new whirr : freedom’s
Imago : quick-change artist (Shakespearean
erector set) : as if Earth were born anew
from flash of sympathetic lightning (Imago,
Imago) : as if all be splendor... & what do you
make of it, Horatio? A mortal debt last narrow
bed a love poured out like wine, like blood
at apex of the Sparrow Hills, one harrowing
hill at base of skull unknown, unknowing
lamp lambent, surrounded by fire (bluebird)