CIRCLE LAKE
Blindly, Hobo inches toward
the Keys. In Florida.
Toward the delta,
in Louisiana. His handy old
eye-in-hand in hand (light
portable fire-drill).
Ply all your skill,
Hobo. Hi huraru ra’a,
Hi awari ra’a. A muddy ray
from cold Atlantic
like some frantic
foundering Santa Maria
threads yarns toward that western
Garden of Evening Star.
Across his eyelid, sure –
like Sire Henry, in his baby coffin
(six weeks encrypted with Guillain-Barré).
Hi huraru ra’a,
Hi awari ra’a.
Autumn leaves of disenchanted
authors, sighing in their libraries...
(the Roger Williams version,
for piano). Dispersion
through each mental prison (Henry’s,
yours). Dread of ocean void
spirals up from deep
Le-Hev-Hev keep –
Coatlicue (the cut-up) is annoyed
*
& threatens Everyman – her sheep
is black & bloody red!
– Nana, you might be dead
before you know it. Go to sleep.
The dream song reconfigures all
within its top-spin
in your heart-garden.
Your father was a gentleman narwhal;
your son was dancing on the shore
of Circle Lake, in Midway
Mirror-Land (in Galilee).
The crucifixion of the Evening Star
will not unveil her night-reality.
Observe this family
photograph, Henry.
Miss Padgett’s ancient book quarry –
the massive double-panes of glass,
a mandorla for owlish
Actaeons (Horus,
searching for Columbia? Atlas,
looking for the moon?) Nana,
dancing Sophie calls me.
Grandpa. Hiawatha
had a friend, Hart Ibis Artemis – yah...
yawning from the deep, Jonah.
You must become the dove
still dancing, love –
spun from the heart of things. Selah.
11.30.18
