A May morning in Providence, early. As ‘twas
in the beguine (years ago, now) the Terrace
rests (in nestle-mossy blanket). Cloudy mist
& foggy dew. & Hobo (lazy Rus) languishes
on his eld bod (park-bench paralysis). His
yearnful, knotty, portable urn of memory-ash.
In the fog-hover, that craggy chestnut lashed
to the cliff can ply his willies in sorrows –
catenary limbs a-swoon, its leaf-buds’
sweeping shad-runs stripe his slumpish back.
He ogles one torpid peek, along a track of
Rog’s buoyant, granite hand. Anchored clouds
obscure the so-familiar sightline, learnt
by burnout heart, graven like wagon-rut
– from R.I. through the needle’s-eye (St.
Loser Arch) past monarch-sky – straight
west, to oro-tangy Golden Gate (Hobo’s
Juliet). Then (blear-eyed) that stretch
of stolen railroad... iron rod, stitched
to the broken range – a-sudden – blooms :
O, from Williams’ outstretched palm, a slight
gray pigeon limps from cliff... a strange
smile slips through the twister-fog... angel?
Limberlost ghost-Joan? With light-beam flight
she looms (instantly immense) from heartland –
& planted (footspread surfer) on the sunstone
of the gate – like Michal on lion’s back – intones :
Rub-dub, deadbeat, awake! Stand! Take my hand...