19
Hobo the poet (remember Hobo?) fell asleep
in patch of bronzegold roadside day-lilies (on
his birthday) at the end of May & someone
touched the key of C (the 29th?) lost sheep
in a corral of Bach, perhaps & had a dream :
2 big rust-rose 28-spoked ferrous wheels
the spokes were made of cottonwood (heals
homesickness) & steel welded without seam
& the wheels turned slowly, gently into one
bi-petal bicycle carting an almond-shaped
canoe which bore an upright oak (draped
with moss garlands) the oak was Black an
Elk stood guard beneath it lilacs shrouded
him from sight in Hobo’s dream he grew
so small so dark only a single rueful brow
with 2 black wings & sea-blue eyes sharpened
could see him there She alone knew
he stood guard so within his rose & lilac
garden his cave a vernal quincunx back
behind limestone rim before time began who
stood forever with the oak a kind of keel
true kelson pointed like compass-needle
toward Étoile du Nord & commonweal
(one Cosmopolis) Hobo saw it too still
shining over Sirius, Evening Star small
distant moon little light sweet innocent
sun-twig asway on branch (old, bent) of
high ancient night oak sheltering tall
6.29.12
No comments:
Post a Comment