prodigal today. this is from India Point, a chapter of a sequel to the sequels titled Time Flowers. will post a photo of the real India Point, soon.

9

Bands of muffled sunlight over the water
above low gray cloud banks. The Bay is
wintry today. The old man you see,
patched in ragged bundles, tottering

like Orpheus taking baby steps (she let go
her hand) looking for the key perhaps,
back to the womb (as he is, lapsed
from world-lap). Orpheus the hobo.

Autumn brings on the cold distances.
His vagrancy resembles a jumbled
freedom, aimless, trembling
since her touch withdrew. Since

then, a little touched. Head-wounded,
light-touched, sounded, he sounds.

*

Ripple of finger-water over the keys
long ago in Mendelssohn (pianissimo).

Quadrilateral structure fanning from
your palm, a fugitive touchstone
unfurls through lightweight bone:
light-weighted simultaneous drum-

ming above chambered metronome
and spiral nautilus make homespun
harmony. Time comes undone
as prodigal Hand begins to roam

and quiver like Northern Light some
motionless afternoon, near the drone
of the river (where you tossed a stone
from shore deep into Hobo Kingdom).

10.30.02

10

Steady breeze across restless silver.
Light flickers in a hobo face. Dry
maple leaves race along the pier
(late afternoon, early November).

Oily staves, blackened lumber creak and
wobble in the wind like living creatures
bent around the dead sunflower
of sunken hull. Meek fingers

make a mask for an aging face (ark-
nave for absent child). Tired hands
recall prodigal canvas, and the keel
sets stuttered sail into empty park,

heavy prow jaywalking anchor-figurehead
(lambent pinewood, mewling abba, abba).

*

Light through crosshairs of a stringent compass.
The old man in us, Pater on path P, NW.

Snow on the shoulders of St. Michael's
coming down (All Saints, All Souls).
Autumnal magnitudes, after the spark
goes dim, after the luminous departures.

With tardy reason we remember
how the coracle urged onward toward
her shore (a circle in a wider world) –
O Orpheus-heartache, so tragic-somber!

Mendelssohn children run into the wind.
Animal nature, mother-wit descend
from heavenly lamps, bare bearings,
potter's pole. Snow-crossroad beckons.

11.2.02