Hobo was King of Mars


Observe the canoe, in the dusty garage
in Ferrara, if you can find it,
she said.  A Star of David,
sewn upon spectral autumn vestige

of threadbare overcoat, shines
in the gloom of late October
day.  My hobo-mutter
fritters into golden leaf-combines,

disintegrating fleets of ripeness.
August limbs go plain
beneath afternoon rain;
the tree stands like an empty chalice

ready to be topped with drifting flakes’
archaic frozen stars.
Hobo was King of Mars
lifted up unto a throne of rakes,

crowned with a pile of leaves; his head
was a planetary pumpkin, &
his magic rattle-wand,
tufted with scorpions, was made

of lead.  The heart shrivels with dread
& melancolia
until the Tauromachia
twirls, milky moon... lifting the Dead

Sea of All Souls’ into a strange orbit
of anti-gravity –
like your gallant oak tree
that lived 600 years upstate


whose trunk was broader than her height
whose acorns sail
from Hudson to the Nile
& carve a reedy vessel (upright

Osiris in mosey-miroir)
to tack the ark of justice
toward mild Providence –
I hae ne wroth, her murmur

filtered through the Pharaoh-mask;
I am the Shekinah
behind Who-He-Who-She;
I am your Miryam at the matrix,

almond salience, unflagging J.
The stars waltz gently
round the Pole... we
dance beneath them, in a play –

late romance of a shakรจd spear
or rustic ferris wheel
where Smolak will repeal
the bearish curse, the hunter’s fear.

Hobo might head back home again
to Basking Ridge, above
the Rio of the Turtledove...
a furrowed nut, a graybeard brain

whose love came surging from the sea –
a tidal wave of hungry
soul (his coulombee).
So turquoise panned gold embassy.


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