down to St. Lou


Henry’s Chair is in the woods,
beside the Rio del Espiritu
Santo.  Hobo to you,
mayhap – lost in his darker moods;

drawing a diagram in river-sand
of Ursiana’s barer pillars,
moss-bound Giuliana’s
pines (forlorn Ravenna swampland).

Emblems of spiritual epilepsy,
moon friar.  Lame lone wolf
Dante, crying for a proof
of integral radiance (nay, nay

sobs hunchback Leopardi).
Hiawatha whistles there –
follow the tripping Hare
Whirlaway to Itascasee?

The spring.  Mammoth drone of stream.
Down to St. Lou,
where airs axle true –
bloodveined grey sponge, clay dream...

tuning-fork in the river road.
Wheel, innocent rabbi,
through your Galilee
of primary colors – lift the load

from Henry’s sloping shoulders.  Bend
a prism to Columbia,
slate panoply of Jonah-sky –
who lights the harbor at grave’s end.


Henry's Chair

No comments: