Jonah was a fisher of men

NO THING

Hobo couched on his frozen bench

& felt the dream of summer

flow through his mummy-

shroud (cocoon from Danish trench).

Everything from no thing,

mused the broody dagger-

raven, plastic bagger

limping toward immortal spring.

Must mean some one looking out

from furled oak leaves.

No one conceives

how close a whisper knits the plot.

Poverty’s a hollow ache.

Lento, lento, the fast

approacheth – one last

Sabbath before Easter break.

The one I love’s an almond slip

between Pharaoh & Laius.

An airborne edifice,

the bubble in the level’s grip;

the fisherman’s égalité –

gal from Gesthemane

surfacing lambent sea,

coulombe crooning Liberté.

One blinding black diamond

clothed in octahedron.

Orange junk lantern,

Hobo’s caravel flamande.

2.4.17