tutelary loon


The river rifles arctic blue today
beneath nippy April wind.
Hobo his way will wend
downhill, ahoy, with the current, hey.

His notebooks stew in crumpled chaos,
like a Burchfield swamp in June –
half cricket calendar, half jejune
palimpsest (July stinks Janus).

Bleak melancholy in Ohio.
Spooks in lean eaves.
Storks bundling wet sheaves
across the ‘30s.  Good material, O.

Hobo looks up from bottomland.
He holds an eye-in-hand –
muddy Cahokia (one grain
of sand).  Just Clay’s j-jug band.

These bricks are 28 feet thick.
A pyramid, almost –
only Hunky Ghost
(Ho-Chunk) could make this stick-up

stick.  Like Killers of the Flower
Moon.  Getch’r Manitou
(just one gris dollar few)
before she get you.  Evening hour

now.  Mire-flowering almond tree
out of Voronezh (or Galilee) –
your mural crown, Tyche.
Hyacinth madeleine (waiting for me).


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