the rooster crows at dawn


Moss-green & rusty brown, the shades
of veritable November.
Carapace for a fire
of leathery hearts, when autumn fades –

hopelessly stained & cracked, like
little nations stewed
in sour grapes – each rude
philosopher of One-&-Many stuck

on stiff prongs of mutual destruction
(as if our differences
were so many instances
of envious violence).  Someone

disconsolate, like moody Hobo,
comes to his dead end
sans lover nor friend.
The bridge beckons, the river flow...

it’s then that her grey shadow
curves to be with him –
grace of the seraphim,
milk of galactic commingling Rio.

A yellow-black monarch skims south
like nature, figuring rebirth;
her beryl-fiddlehead of mirth
lifts Hobo to the vernal mouth –

where dark Sophia & the turtledove
gather in Providence again.
The rooster crows at dawn
on city walls... an early aria, up above.


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