unless the Lord builds the house, the builders build in vain
A cloudy noon in June, in Providence.
The year draws out toward its longest day.
Hobo – or is it Henry now? – will try to say
once more what ails him... is it loneliness?
Sprawled on a broken bench at Prospect Terrace...
(or dryness? – now his hectic dream’s dispersed,
it seems)... By that low cliff... as if over a coast
of absent turf, a sea of air. He feels depressed.
Recall a day like this, out for a walk with you
tasting stray honeysuckle, that still cascades
in creamy orange & green over the palisade
on George... under a high & quiet royal blue.
& then I heard the softest sound... a sweet
low-warbling-mellifluent air-flute (through
sea-grass, prairie rushes). O Henry, will you
never, ever learn? I’m here, my slow, effete
& doubtful comrade – here always. Remember
now : implanted Love is as a tiny mustardseed
of fire. It burns through your sad frozen world
of lost desire, to build anew : Cosmos, tempered
by justice – by transparency & truth (clear air
above Lanthanum Rd). Metaphysical Providence
is born this way – each day : out of beneficence
& magnanimity, God’s brimming Ocean River –
endless lovingkindness. Deepest Mississippi joy!
Now go... explore! Beyond those azure gates...
So I rose up to the old cliffside – looked west
again... my heart buoyant. Freedom, ahoy!