A Fontegaia Saturday.


A gray March-rainy day in Providence.
Everything evens out at last. Moist
pelt of willow-bud releases drops as if lost
in thought, slowly, deliberate. Immense

canvas of peregrine sketch-boy, hobo...
his reigning Rainy River, gushing spring.
He pencils in concentric ovals, circling
ripples, primary shades - strange rainbow

anchors, fountains. A stream like one vast
branching oak (from Dina Miss. to Moonlight
Minn.). A candelabra, rotating (ultimate
height to bottomland - pt.A to last stop, pt.

Z). A curious Mayan-Sanskrit outrider
stands upright as pin-oak, at the center
of a rain-washed flagstone target, there.
Mast of O Democracy - an Everynobody,

rampant. Submariner, engulfed in brain
amnesia... one palm outstretched (to bind
a piece of string from pier to pier). Kind
span... muffled sound of omnipresence...

you are that murmur camouflaged in concrete
blocks, an undertone to every unslaked heart.
Archimedean shark lure, dangling disinterred
from sky. Curve where all the moorings meet.

Just willow tree. A silver chandelier.
With myriad arms outstretched to grasp
a simple moonlit bend. So one slight hasp
widens an April (wafer-thin) mandala-door.

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