by old Bronze River


Every day’s a sabbath day
for Hobo in retirement.
He drowses, full content
by old Bronze River (jasper, say –

carnelian, or sard).  On an empty bench
left for Henry once
in Dante’s Providence;
muttering seek ye the good, mensch

avoid evil.  That would be a start.
The natural conscience
inheres in us; hence
dignity of life abides at heart

like some inalienable hearth-fire,
wants but a spark
to swivel toward magnetic
North (up near Itasca, where

scampers el Baby Rio del Espiritu).
That’s his geography –
some Hart-biography
sketched by the circle of a grey-blue

palm (O Thou smoky Hand
of Fire) – lightening the clouds
with limestone pigeon-crowds
& Jonah-spray... playful Leviathan!

O chaste & ancient liberties
free men & women found
promising iris-ground
out of primordial charities


when Pharaoh was scapegoat too
& idols of the king
morph into Arty-thing
or potsherd red-white-blue

jewel-eye... old Noah’s galley
wakening in Galilee,
when ordinary Mary
hums a grass-green prairie

ray.  The light of Providence
shines out of living things
her omnipresence – springs
on breezy air (moist & immense)

into the metamorphoses
of human times, places –
so many steeplechases
in one race!  Four horses

at Clop-Clop Ellipse rounded
the bend by Hobo’s bench –
each iron bit they clench
forged in a molten sun-crowned

whisper-salience.  Providence
Rose crossed over the line
in first.  Bright human-
divine dervish foot-dance –

key pivoter in clay, O starfish
sun-Leviathan –
O luminous Kid of Man
in cloud-basilica (original Ish).


No comments: