on San Francisco's day


How quickly the tiny silver hearts
of the cottonwood turn gold.
In honor of the sun, grown old
now (down where a brazen stream departs).

Franciscan metamorphosis –
leaves drifting on the wind
bring Hobo back to mind
their magnitudes, their endlessness...

her cosmos full of smiling shapes
detailed by carpenter,
who shakes the roof of winter
into a trillion dazzling ice-capes.

The scarlet & the royal blue
he doffs, along with his
armor... naked he goes
into the plains, Ti sta seguendo.

Imperial purple violets
are his insignia –
his Tauromachia
a simple tread (love-knots

from Ariadne’s labyrinth).
A rusted railroad bridge
over the Western ridge
turns orange... Guillaume’s absinthe

goes green... out of the grey cloud-
matter whispers down
a ring-dove’s croon (your own
ange d’or) – original shape-shifter God.


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