cottonwood sky


In the steep ravine shading the river
Hobo’s eyes follow
smooth limbs upward, so –
into a cloud of silver-green shimmer,

Columbian sky-nest
of cottonwoods.  His squint
moseys like scattered flint –
mishmash out of Ocean states

into some kind of Land o’ Lakes
matryoshka doll, or Land 
o’ Goshen Big Rock Candy
Mountain.  The poet is a sacred

fool (or cataleptic converter)
& every shepherd’s an
effete abomination,
just a bump under a bumpkin tower.

Hobo keeps an eye on Henry,
ambling up there
on River Road.  Air-
head royale, full of acorn honey,

soldering his Goshen stone
into a manic-hollered
coat of caustic red
Rhode Island rooster-throne –

a sharpened archaic Goshen point
left at Minnehaha
Falls by some Ojibwa
dream-boat.  The time is out of joint


he cries, with a Norwegian accent –
O Jessie, O Ophelia,
my little tree, Columbia!
Come tripping back unto the oak tent

once again, out of the Ocean foam!
Flip your big dive, big Dove,
into reverse – for love
of Yahweh, & of Manitou, & home

sweet home!  An infinite Intelligence
invisible as air,
kind as mon cher
Francesco, wise as Providence,

clear as the sky vaulting these gray
heart-leaves – our octave,
Henry, Hobo... wave
on wave, on wave (lithe sun-ray).

From the standpoint of ineffable Person
an infinite free Spirit
(older than Cautantowwit,
with all his Raven-wit) – a Someone

omnipresent, serving restoration
to a hurt creation – mercy
exudes like oak-tree honey-
gall.  Some smiling heart-shaped cotton-

wooden crossroad Livingstone –
green-gowned Sophia
traipsing Milky Way-a
Sarabande (one, two, three... one).


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