8.08.2019

photo from Ballets Russes




ALMOND ARGO

Old Hobo-&-Henry, down by Big Muddy.
Hobo lounges in cottonwood shade.
Twirls a bright curving blade
of tiger-lily, so orange & black, idly

between finger & thumb.  Henry
thought of mossy Giuliana
walking away from her pottery
shop, entering the gloom of Sant’Apollinari –

high frieze of majestic virgin martyrs
carrying their crowns.
The photo from Ballets Russes,
Paris, 1913 – spring maids, en fleurs...

& the black dot of Juliet in the distance
crossing the tensile spine 
of orange tiger-dragon
one last time (beneath frost-cobalt silence).

Strange oak, epileptic, near the shore.
Bent like a lyre before
a cluster of cottonwoods – your
humble servant, it seems.  Kingly no more.

Hobo eyed it.  Washing their leaves
with hers, maybe, he said.
Like San Francesco & his bride,
his sister, Povertà.  Humility cleaves

to the pivot of this world, the matrix –
to the crossroad, to the tree
of life.  I look into you, Henri –
to your salty heart.  I read the asterisk

                        *

you scribble for a star, approximately –
I scan the fresco-sketch
you offer for a spirit-potlatch
replica of New World Galilee.  It’s funny.

Earth is in its birth-pang death-throes,
Hobo.  Hope is hard to find.
Yet... the kingdom’s in your mind.
Your heart, my friend.  The Shadow knows.

& you were right to shape the Southern Cross
surrounded by Sydney fig trees
into a diamond-figure Paradise –
to stem four rivers from St. Louis

like emerald casket for the Eucharist;
for Micòl in her black canoe
& MLK in Memphis too
sustain that central martyrdom of Mars

just as Dante foresaw, in his basilica –
where little sylvan J
circumferences her almond tree
delightfully... & the grail of tears (Ephphatha)

opens broken hearts across the globe
to each one’s almond Argo
Isis-eyed Hagia Sophia...
see, Henry Church?  & like a strobe

light suddenly unfolded, Henry felt
what Osip felt – accompanied
the rapture of the universe (sighed
with bold Marian... watched iron melt).

8.8.19

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