Jonah was a fisher of men


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.


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