setting out toward the 9th

ACORN WIGWAM

The last of the crickets, in their silver mines

among dun stalks, pipe

to each other, under a ripe

& misty Bruegel sky.  Hobo Henry’s lines

distend toward hibernation.  Soon

he must contend with bumpkin

men, their jealous trumpetin’ –

all Caesars of the earth, again...

that agèd guild of frozen snowmen

Knossos harbors in the maze.

But now we know their ways –

cowmen dividing up the herd end

up dividing up themselves, as they began.

He flecks his oiled horsehair

to spike the nightmare –

cloud-grey dove’s-eye view, the human

magic lamp, Okie dream-songe.

& like a baby ape emerging

from the cave, he’ll sing

the Sun of Love, très riche, étrange –

Apollinaire’s trompette marine

will flute the sweet bass

threads, an Ariadne-lasso...

YAMB-WHIT-YAM (so coralline,

full-fathomed now).  Kind eye

of Psyche, manifest

to fire the clay – to test

the relativity of acorn wigwam (A-OK).

11.17.16