LAMBENT FLUTE
This bumblebee on goldenrod,
hunting the crossroad
at close of summer. Old
Hobo character – camouflaged
in yellow-black (almost). Henry’s
obsession with absence.
I’d go the distance
into infinite cornfields, he says.
The river subculture, the dream
of floating back home.
Churnagogue palindrome
or unknown womb... clay baptism.
The cottonwood leaves seem to flow
like golden honey, then –
in Taurida, on the autumn
wind. Like little heart-ships, so
they swim. Out of the tight-knit shawl,
out of the everlasting
fire. None shall be coming
to the Father except by Son, y’all –
by way of Mother. That absolute
Somebody – a labyrinth
of stars, wherein we are hid
like lightning bugs, or lambent flute
reflections (crane-bone twins).
Flickering far beyond
woodpecker Trebizond,
sleepwalker Knossos – wheeling fins.
8.5.18
No comments:
Post a Comment