Lanthanum 10.22

Still Hobo teetered there, at the summit of the Gate.
& his ship-shafty companion (call me Antho-USA
today; no, never Morelia) bobbed in her cloud-bay
saddle, nearby.  See you’ve rambled, reprobate,
back to babblin’-on, she said.  Me sorry, trumbled
Tramp.  It’s his leadweight heart, near to tip him
off the mound.  That peak between the cherubim
tops off his mule-pack (time, distance) – a tomb-
light, Ton-El – up an infinite suffertrail, dank
with wasted ghosts.  Across a milkweed Sheol
to El Rosario (Michoacan, where monarchs go).
It’s my sister-bird, Juliet – left me & Hank
too soon – off that other Gate, flame-orange,
far westLeft her father that way, too
on his birthday.  Dark wings waved (hoodoo)
over her chair.  Mercy... wind so light & strange,
passing... like that flighty-shady nymph (dear cuz
undone).  I knowYet you shall shed your fear
& sorrow, Hobo – here : take this to wear
over your heart.  An anthem-band of bees &
columbine she offered, then – light-heavy
with tenderness.  When the milkweed monarch
lifted off for Mexico, he left behind his bark-
pontoon, linen cocoon – scented with rosemary
& rue, with myrrh & frankincenseHunt now,
Hobo, for the scent beyond sense, the dream
enfolding reason; you’ll find love’s cosmic scheme
compassed by prodigal return... compassion’s vow.

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