invisible Henry Church


A cup of sunlight floats across
the cedar octagon
of the gazebo.  June
leads summer nearer endlessness.

A squad of orange day-lilies
freckles the riverbank
where weedy Hobo sank
to the wheat.  His mother’s frieze

of blazing international neon
(banked by green hosta)
outshines them today.
These lily-petals arch a grain-

vault – great grey elevator
rounded with cloud-pillars,
where the safety-net was
knotted, finally – in memory

of J.  Shadow of a tacit planet –
moony-silver Saturn
waiting for the Golden
Age, maybe – foggy parapet

where earth meets sky (grey
overlapping waves
& clouds).  Dante’s grave’s
invisible, behind a clutter of gray

paint-pots, now – beneath a blur
of ink-wings over parchment
– where the bald eagle bent
his beak, pinned torn souls in tar


each to his or her last judgement.
Hobo looks up through grass
toward his own Ravenna’s
golden youth.  Incandescent cloud-sent

Tadzio, back from the ashes –
gesturing an orant Orient
from shore to shore.  Went
Jesus thus from Galilee, eyelashes

wet with tears (witnessed); so Henry
Tadpole Turtledove
breaches, scattering love
like baby spouting sperm whale (verily).

Invisible Henry Church is vagrant
as St. Franky’s mule –
flutters in a monarch school
through silver double dove-doors, bent

toward Mexico.  When that last Adam
lingers in a weed-garden
for Mary Magdalen,
she coos, Columbian, for him;

it is the beginning of the end.
An ancient raven hovers
over Hobo, bearing leftovers
(crumbs from a wedding).  Mend

your way, she caws.  Men do not know
how swift the river-flow,
how salt Gulf breezes blow.
Light winks from coral reefs below.


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