DRIFTWOOD FIGURE
Hobo, driftwood figure, with his pal
Oblomov, headed south
aboard their pallid frigate
under the North Star (fleurs du mal).
Lent was coming on, when every
scrivener is shriven
or be damned. Even
Isaiah, with that meteor (so very
hot) beneath his tongue, bent down
into the dust… awaiting
his Participating
Angel of the Harvest (Whitsun
shine). The 50th, the Pentecost.
At very end of May.
One grain of precious clay,
one grey pebble… one lamp not lost.
Gravity looms there like a thundercloud.
Not Rome, but Man’s place
in the universe (ace
in the hole, casket buried in a field).
The secret joy, il ben del’intelletto –
Dante’s apprehension
of that Beatrician
quiddity. Incorruptible glow
shed by her smiling shade… felt, so.
Bright alba in the diamond
of your emerald almond;
hopeful coracle (Micòl’s canoe).
3.6.20
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