Lanthanum 12.1

1

unless the Lord builds the house, the builders build in vain

A cloudy noon in June, in Providence.

The year draws out toward its longest day.

Hobo – or is it Henry now? – will try to say

once more what ails him... is it loneliness?

Sprawled on a broken bench at Prospect Terrace...

(or dryness? – now his hectic dream’s dispersed,

it seems)...  By that low cliff... as if over a coast

of absent turf, a sea of air.  He feels depressed.

Recall a day like this, out for a walk with you

tasting stray honeysuckle, that still cascades

in creamy orange & green over the palisade

on George... under a high & quiet royal blue.

& then I heard the softest sound... a sweet

low-warbling-mellifluent air-flute (through

sea-grass, prairie rushes).  O Henry, will you

never, ever learn?  I’m here, my slow, effete

& doubtful comrade – here always.  Remember

now : implanted Love is as a tiny mustardseed

of fire.  It burns through your sad frozen world

of lost desire, to build anew : Cosmos, tempered

by justice – by transparency & truth (clear air

above Lanthanum Rd).  Metaphysical Providence

is born this way – each day : out of beneficence

& magnanimity, God’s brimming Ocean River –

endless lovingkindness.  Deepest Mississippi joy!

Now go... explore!  Beyond those azure gates...

So I rose up to the old cliffside – looked west

again... my heart buoyant.  Freedom, ahoy!

      6.9.12