These heavy green butternuts
fall to the green grass
from the milky axis
of the Po-tree – go thump & burst
(each one a miniature globe
of moist black earth).
Thus Hobo mused, at berth
among the river fronds, robed
in emerald, magenta, rust.
One such blade his wand,
divining rod – her land
releasing signs out of the dust;
smoke-signals, signed, co-signed
into a circle (arcing back
to the beginning of the track).
Jade footsteps from a cloudy mind,
a raincloud out of futurepast;
merging, centripetal –
heaven is integral –
a raven knife, a pinecone mast
(that rotates on a maze of grass
within a vapid place
of sterile office space).
Flowers are immortal – pass
then, with Hobo, through the Gate!
crown for children –
that beats Goliath with a tiny mite!
A baby meteor,
a coal of holy fire –
wholeness at heart, golden moonlight!
Her orb gleams like a seal, a coin –
meek penny versus
or muted acorn humming down
brass trumpets of disputing despots.
It is the dolphin-seal
of Ocean State, an Israel
incarnate in the rose bee-glade. What’s
hidden in the earth, a promise
limping with Natasha –
with immovable Nadezhda,
still in Voronezh – liberty, justice;
a rainbow equilibrium, that harbors
simple shining Gates –
St. Frisco’s nail-bites
lifting iron weights, up to palm-arbors
evergreen! That glory be hidden
like a key, or like a rudder
in the wave – to shudder
into light upon the crest... thy pardon
for this history, White Rose!
Row to the Keys, Hobo –
Eureka by the Po,
our watering hole – look whose Face glows!