from Time Flowers

13

Every J-stroke spins a tiny whirlpool
into the slow current. So Hobo's needy
pilgrimage into a weedy labyrinth seeds
water with its offspring, unscrolled

schools that merge into a mazy matrix.
Lackland or Lackawanna, longing for pap
or papa, he paddles, curling, down path P -
half-man, half-something, worm or asterisk -

toward a double-breasted Venus, scratched
in primitive shorthand (like a W) across
his blinded sky. Primordial, coarse
hunger. Springs Epiphany - cross-hatched

and sketched by those two brothers (allies
now) drawn (by Leo) to Madonna's knees.

*

The star-node hums, the almond crossword
over hexagonal snow, dodecagyn Rhodes.

Pent in a primal nest, a wedding bower,
garden of Cyrus or Solomon, in May-time,
at the end of May, as the breeze trims
petals sailing overhead - sweet hour

of flickering light and shade above the river
O my beloved. Before rivers tumbled,
or brothers battled - before God humbled
Babel, turned speech to dust. Forever

and forever, in the pregnant bud, the seed
renews itself, returning to its maker -
was (before Abram traveled out from Ur)
wild crossroad. Hobo follows your lead.

5.31.03

(note: a "J-stroke" is the steering-stroke in a canoe)