So Hobo looked out from his high prospect
across the vast wide land spread out below
& felt his heart beat by an ancient woe, a
double blow : he heard inexorable time inflect
that planetary grandeur with its transience;
& sensed his solitude. Mocked by his own,
held in contempt; shunned as well by a divine
distaste, indignant toward his lingering offense...
Natasha, where to now? he muttered gloomily.
Shall we follow that raven to the far southwest?
I’m like a desert pelican, an owl – or loneliest
sparrow on a rooftop, here. I’m ready
to go. His kindred pilot’s hazel eyes kindled
& glowed then from beneath her vapor-veil;
lingered on him awhile. Our sail swells full,
old snowbrow – we’re headed further afield
in vision now – so far southwest, it’s east of
here. Come, rusty one – we’re off to Lazicum.
She flicks her almond wand – they see some
wraith-like, venerable patriarch, his limbs
all scarred & crippled, in a threadbare robe
of pink & azure, like a child’s blanket. This
ancient of days is Maximus, a simple priest –
exiled from splendor of Byzantium, the orb
& scepter of his regal wisdom (Solomonic
authority of Hagia Sophia) yet remains :
immaculate light-sprinkled manna-veins
seep from his glowing lips – symphonic
flute-flights, harmonies of cosmic gratitude.
Who, like a microcosmic firmament, upheld eld
octahedral honey-dome : one sinuous joy-welded
hum divine’s duet-triad’s glissando-plenitude.