Hermione's return


The park bench by the Father of Waters
is Hobo Henry’s throne.
Where he comes to his own
like Leontes (late to his daughter’s

recovery, Hermione’s return).
That sidewinding father
plays hide-&-seek – with another
voice, another fleece.  Like someone

you met once, on the road to Emmaus
or St. Petersburg – sly
Queequeg, tricksy Bluejay...
warbling red Robin in burnoose

of raven-ink.  His tattoo labyrinth
the cave he trails from –
a smoky-flutey hum
folding the whole into a ninth

symphonic inning (end-beginning).
This personal boomerang
widens your gyre, bright Milky-
Zed – like a shadow slowly shrinking

toward your noon.  Come back again.
Global res publica
out of Exodus.  A prairie
equal sign, Mississippian –

grass salience across the river (Monk’s
Mound) still reminder
we were slaves once, here
(Dred Scott & Gateway Arch plunk


side by side).  Slaves kept by others,
& slaves to ourselves.
Whose arrogance resolves
into a Minotaur of rival brothers

(orange vs. black – harsh prison stripes
mirrored across scarce
monarchs, dense cedars).
Vlad in Kiev?  One of them types.

Or Nabokov, in camouflage.
A Frisco safety net
might bolt this Nut
who stretches out her flamande bridge

into an arch, over the Nile –
osprey transfigurement
of J to fundament
(her spirit flaming into smile).

This late romance, Leontes-Hobo –
some Pygmalion’s design –
lifted La Paix from Brooklyn
mud, with Liberté (moss-emerald glow).

Her incarnation of a crocus rose
& spun gold gyroscopes,
kalimba-periscopes –
around a Maypole calculus

of loving fingerprints, & penny-clues.
The Earth, in shadow of
one flighty Jonah-dove...
your arc of fellowship (King of the Blues).



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