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 west. Left 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 know. Yet 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 & frankincense. Hunt 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.
5.12.12
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