Fontegaia Space Odyssey.


A still-bare delta of branching limbs
in light March rain. Tributaries
flecked with tiny green flotillas.
Something pulsing through those stems

redeems the worn-out winter grass,
trash-dotted ground. Old unshaven
hung-over hobo season! Even pavement
sprouts your weedy wanderlust (en-masse).

A momentary pirhouette. 10, 9, 8...
two billion years from now, the galaxies
Andromeda and Milky Way (say stargazers)
will marry, merge. Black-hole checkmate.

The End. So let Hobo unfold his hand.
A pocket-size apocalypse (poco al poco,
loco pard). He'll only marry Mocha
Midge, his loony star - her wedding band

but a wavelength long (blood orange to
dark honey milk). Twin doubtful wraith
those two will plait - a ghostly path
across Lethe - wrung out of range

of deepest light (one copper penny
pays the fare). And we were there,
fair witnesses. It's in the air,
maroon, marine - in Magdalen's keen

cleaving to your fate. A way of seeing
April blindly home; a copper wight's green
calibration, tightening a Pvt. No One's
skull. You paid in full, O Revenant (beaming).

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