ACORN WIGWAM
The last of the crickets, in their silver mines
among dun stalks, pipe
to each other, under a ripe
& misty Bruegel sky. Hobo Henry’s lines
distend toward hibernation. Soon
he must contend with bumpkin
men, their jealous trumpetin’ –
all Caesars of the earth, again...
that agèd guild of frozen snowmen
Knossos harbors in the maze.
But now we know their ways –
cowmen dividing up the herd end
up dividing up themselves, as they began.
He flecks his oiled horsehair
to spike the nightmare –
cloud-grey dove’s-eye view, the human
magic lamp, Okie dream-songe.
& like a baby ape emerging
from the cave, he’ll sing
the Sun of Love, très riche, étrange –
Apollinaire’s trompette marine
will flute the sweet bass
threads, an Ariadne-lasso...
YAMB-WHIT-YAM (so coralline,
full-fathomed now). Kind eye
of Psyche, manifest
to fire the clay – to test
the relativity of acorn wigwam (A-OK).
11.17.16
