It was 11:32, not far from midnight.
Drowsy Hobo nodded, weary... heard a whisper
nigh. Give ear, sleepwalking shepherd; here.
He stumbles forward, blessed with sight
through stubby fingers. Gaze on that bloom
afloat o’er rhizomatic limestone, there
(between the cherubim) – its violet flare.
Hobo squints... his fuzzed vision (broken zoom
lens) wavers... notes the luminous periphery
(a halo round the moon). Then, like magnifying
glass on August grass – a flame! Whizz-flying
toward him – face to face! He turns away...
Who dwelleth in the man-door, there?
In the man-door there, who dwells? the bird-
voice warbled, crooned. Soft grey-wing soared...
The sudden overwhelming sweetness of your
omnipresence, everywhere : the center
of centers is dispersed like seeds of fire.
& like a silver keyboard of sea-waves, or
molten hive through mandala-perimeter
(Argus-eyed Hagia Sophia) this water-
whorl (tender hurricane of tears) led
Hobo on forsaken track, through Land
of the Dead... toward sound of laughter!
The mystery lingers near the sunlit stone.
Limestone Evening Land... whirl-mound.
Kurgan of conscience-riven bards. Fond
spires... Homer-come-home (wrung clean).