Fontegaia Space Odyssey.

7

 
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).