From the height of Natasha-Sacajawea’s Gate
Hobo beheld early sunlight lance over lawns
of America – til dew vaporized, like leprechauns’
tears (his plumblue heart, cancroid after all that
glory). & then some woman in vapor-chariot
flapped a black wing across his face – her beak
vicing a brazen gleer, one pirate eye. Quick
now here gone... cawed; fled (Hobo disconsolate).
Was she leaving him alone again? After all that?
Then he noticed the cloudish pillar, levitating
off to his left. My morphosis is demonstrating
photosynthèse, spake hrm thundery tornado – what
about your new leaf? Hen-boy ponda whut say.
Don’t bother, rub-dub – I know you, through
& through – as you know me. Pas-de-deux.
Touché. Les jeux sont faits (ro-rondelay).
Myrrh, aloes, cassia... I will indite good matter
touching the king, like a ready writer – if only
to exalt the king’s daughter (with gold of gopher).
Hith coracle skimmet acrest yeh tremulouth water
of her breathtth... as y’midnight bird
stroketh summer lightning (SW, SW).
Hym cryptic peach werve a chestnut
casque, or monarch cocoon... weord
heiving voueils. Why? The hale platoon
weights on your answer, Pythia (Magdalen).
Yon icon of bereft grave-clothes... Mary found
them in a milkweed field (Natasha’s temple-tune).