Fontegaia zeroes in.

5

 
Saturday afternoon.  A lambent flickering
through old porch glass.  Slight rainbow
effect against yellow-green (stealing
toward brown) wood frame.  A ring

 
of midwestern Mnemosyne (faint memory
of summer cabins?) lingers on the mental
doorstep.  This is how they call,
the seraphim (hardly there, really).

 
A pair of prophets in a sunset fresco,
silent (in the weekend city hall).
They stand beside a doorway.  Still.
Wrapt irises converge on San Francisco.

 
We hardly knew you're there.
Like mutters of a hobo sketch artist,
horsing around in solitary.  O most petite
one o'nine muses, grace his gray,

 
his patriotic zero stare!  For good.
His flag's his flagging repertoire -
a simple tune of freedom (by a shore
of IKB and salty waters, streaking red).

 
Under the darkening colors, beneath
the gray, a midnight milk-&-honey train
hoots (like wayward whale) across the plain.
Upstream, along the riverbank (its wraith

 
of steam trailing the other way).  Zigzag
retreat toward monkish habitat (gray-
green palm fronds, some Sheba-almond joy).
Sheds everything, grows light (high milky jag).