I am what I ham


The night train rumbles like a ghost
of iron over the bridge
over the river.  Sage
Minnehaha, Hobo loves you most.

He’s lying by the muddy bank
trying to clear his head.
Everything he’s read
demands – who am I to thank?

The driftwood spines of shattered books
surge downstream, sink.
Think, Hobo, think –
a deadman’s glancing you posthumous looks.

Twin humps in winter refuse
under the lamp-green
of young leaves...  Scene :
pillars try an almond (Moses, Jesus).

Through teenage foliage coheres
the rust-brown iron magnet
of one (hold tight!)
modal mine of shifting gears –

the rocky profile of a personal friend,
who’s center’s nowhere
& who’s hairline is (look there,
Horatio!) nowhere near the end.

A sibyl croons from the ancient world
whose prince is dancing
naked by the prow.  Sing,
mickle dam... like slingshot hurled.


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