Step by shaky step, lame Hobo
spirals the lead-grey hump,
an awkward salience – dump
or agate-hold? He doesn’t know.
Like Doc Woodpecker, peppering
the old birchbark, testing
the ribs for air – a ring
of hollow knock-knock, worm-hurling.
The sap running... a red thread
of civet. Venison
oozing from the cauldron.
There’s no going back to the dead.
In the splendor of the west window
a minute glass tear
bisects its mirror –
eggshell splinter twixt Église & you.
My almond diamond, mutters Hobo.
Ring around the rosy,
let’s all go see
Thunderbird (hear the wind blow).
Notes of a flute, along the river.
Ocarina in the woods.
Hums through stray moods
of autumn... Black Elk (Indian giver).
You trace the zigzag coral coil –
a Queequeg scar, knifed
into casket-crown. Life-
line for Jonah. Rachel’s whorl-oueil.