Fontegaia's been on quite a streak lately.

12

 
It was early in the leaping-water-season,
one grey morning.  Lonesome Drifter,
like a chip of wood, squared
with his name under a see-saw sun

 
in an empty square, in San Francisco.
Played peek-a-boo with gray-tinged light
across chill blocks.  A cube of salt
from Nile-fed sea, like silt he'll flow

 
where the whispers go.  A puttering
mourning dove pecks at his feet.
On her gray throat glints rainbow light;
a band plays ring-structures (cueing

 
for flight) behind, below her feathered
fold of wing.  Music for Four Winds
dies down.  Silence penetrates the sound.
Plaque for plague victims.  Fresco, tethered

 
with a hopeful pact - sealed 
with mordant of a raptor's art.
Hobo halts there, listening (wrapt
in ragged clods).  The pigeon wheels.

 
Pivots.  10, 9... his fingers counted
down a line of graceful lineaments,
their linen governments... all present
now.  As when a morning word fountains

 
into overwhelming wave, his overtaken
heart (adoring) wondered at its source.
And then the sun rose like a moon-horse -
Ocean glittered, surging, under Golden Gate.