Hobo's dream-sponge


The pearl shines at the bottom of the harbor
as a lamp glows in the darkness.
Color of St. Francis’
donkey (silver-grey, St. Thomas More).

Henry’s church is in the grey-scale too;
a weathered pebble, like
an unknown soldier (Psyche-
cloud, veiling the ocean’s blue).

Bright pennants of the jungle world
(green, orange, black) are
silky glass, refracting back
primary triplets of an orb unfurled –

gold sun, red clay, & midnight sea.
Her mouth is milky ivory
from Santa Giulia, in Brescia...
her parabolic harmony dovetails for me

into a grail from good grey Elephant
(whose queen is dark & comely
Africa).  So Henry’s comedy
plumbs bottomland; its hierophant

is Hobo in disguise, pearl-diving
from the Golden Gate;
his Beatrice-Juliet
is Orpheus-Eurydice – is every living

soul, sleeping to swim the wake
of Lake Victoria.
Birth-rite of Jonah –
rock-dove sparked for Zion’s sake


& all Creation’s sign of Noah.
Suddenly, like lightning
we are made – brightening
kids from adamant stone – Aloha,

planet-people!  Welcome to Providence!
A grey Rabbi heeds
my mumbling... new needles
green the stems of an immense

Jerusalem spear-flower... Juno
to Juneteenth, July to Jubilee,
the fallow air grows milky
& the Glory of the Lord will show

petals of pink & indigo
before too long.  Behold
the twin mirror-doors of bold
St. Thomas – he who was slow

to believe.  Now the dream-sponge
out of Resurrection Cemetery
sucks Lazarus like Henry
into a mystery play.  Plunge,

Cautantowwit-Raven, into the deep
Black Sea.  A Thunderbird
breaches your salty word
in spumy clouds of Neva-Sleep,

& Woodpecker hammers out Twin
Oak’s mandorla-canoe –
a Restoration Day, for you.
Casket of Lazarus – a milk-crate tin.


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