all manner of thing


Old Hobo drowses near the summit
of summer.  He sits
in the midst of his nitwit
desires, like Hobo King; he would not

harm a bug, much less a refugee
plodding to the ports
with worn-out bags, hurt
babies on their backs... ay me!

Corruption is an empty shell
sans floor beneath.
Dons with shark teeth
bowl cannon balls in hell.

He muses on St. Thomas More
& Maximus, a little more;
Susanna’s chaste amour,
the hanging gardens of the Moor.

Lambs in their locality
taste the long grass
while summers pass,
yielding too much reality;

Hobo sleepwalks with the rest,
absorbed in his dream-
sponge.  Every seam
fans rain from peacock-fest –

an early-bird worm-hunters’ realm
inscaped with infinite
abundant life... articulate
splendor from the milky helm


of Wisdom’s gratified delight.
No beast can overwhelm,
no tyrant flim-flam
microcosmic Man’s birth-right,

intones mild Maximus from his
ascetic prison-cell;
all shall be well,
all manner of thing – from fire-fizz

to salmon-grill, from trumpet-vine
to orange safety-net,
all shall be swell.  Get
you, my child, to the heart of Man –

it is no absence in Creation,
but flutter of a smile;
a wing-beat with no guile,
eyes’ icon of ineffable Person.

Draw near.  Hobo is dreaming now.
Rio del Espiritu...
a river-mystery.
Gazes at figurehead upon a prow.

One climbing from the grave.  Jonah?
Eurydice?  Mary
sleeps in the cemetery –
dreams within a dream.  Selah.

Calm-spinning, like a gyroscope,
the Hobo-King advances
toward the tomb of Lazarus.
Her mandorla... light rays the slope.


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