for John Tagliabue

Hobo drifts through rusted railroad world.
His tongue rasps out the iron flavor
of refusals, privy contretemps. Over
cautious caravans, his pet raven hurls

exacting retribution - narrow gauge
thrown down to a thin red line of lips.
That curved plum of silence, where ships
descend... the promise of their tutelage

a concord at the vanishing point. Stout keys
of shared reality. Not disenchantment,
now, but hopefulness - ninefold reconcilement
(sweet reunions, recognition's ecstasies).


Edith, I slept across the roots of the jade tree,
hopelessly. Above me, the driftwood
(strung from slow parallels) rocked quietly,
back, forth... drawing a pattern (see-

saw) out of suspended gravity.
It was the inclusive arch, spread tenderly
between obdurate stones, above the turmoil
of indifferent waves. A lambency

of recursions, curled toward equanimity;
an almond shadow-lens (cornerstone
of coronations) twirled into one
untutored sport - light spirit-ditty.

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