Whitsun yodeling


Hobo goes with the flow of things,
he sinks into the green
entanglement of vine
& grape, the stream’s faint ripplings.

His logos is a Lincoln knot
scratched into driftwood
while Turtledove cooed
overhead (so reads Coyot’).

The knot binds everything, as with
her singing spine, the Argo
bound over il Mar Nero
Noé’s noeud of adoration (myth

turned moth turned monarch seal).
Echoes from a cave
one vanished brave –
Love’s breadcrumb, who became a meal.

All come to bloom in memory...
as the canoe in the garage
scented with Micòl-image
breathes again inscript in Bassani.

A grail of dew sprinkles the summer grass
with Hobo’s oasis-gems;
yearning no one condemns
uplifted where it shall not pass –

into that monarch-realm of dark cedar
where a thrush warbles
& salt breeze marbles
lilac dusk (by Po-Boy River).


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