5.09.2012

Lanthanum 10.19


19
So Hobo wobbled there at the peak of the Arch.
Woozy-dizzy in that crystalloid high air – yet
felt no vertigo.  Afloat nearby, his aerial scout-
master spun flips & twirls in her cloud-Cadillac.
Awake yet, lazy Russkie? she tooted his way.
Yes, but... what’s yr name? said he.  Call me
Sacajawea today, why don’t you... since we’ll be
tasting the 6 directions – ancien sacre Jambalaya
journée.  But take a look around.  Hobo turned
against the slow pavane he felt already – as if
on a rainbow turtle’s back – edging the cliff-
face of the universe – myhrn-eye purled
like a sturdy gyroscope, sapphire-engulfed.
He stood between a sea of wet monsoon-
shields (two? three?) merged at the horizon.
Above, the sky-realm – rove-wings of ruffled
galaxies.  Below, four corners of a 50-scarred-
&-striped nation, whose engines blazed eight
candle-cylinders.  & in 3rd gear, waltz-light
a mute & melancholy planet opened wide
one tear-filled moat, let flow one milk-moon tide
of River Ocean... avalanche from utmost height 
of heaven-land.  Maybe now, lapsed eremite,
you might turn over a new leaf! she cried.
Iridium – rhodium – cobalt... she cast her spell
& instantly that waterwhorl was one Black Sea.
Come Lazicum, most artificial burg... the Delta
groaned – Big Muddy, Carib Eye (deep iron bells).
                         5.9.12

5.08.2012

Lanthanum 10.18


18
The old tramp, at the edge of the Terrace, slowly,
stiffly, rose to his feet – stood like a craggy pine.
Slight limp in the rhythm, the limpid modulation
of her voice (like far-off bird, calling tenderly
through timber) gripped his heart.  Her hand
suddenly grasped his (spearing out from a mass
of unreadable cloud).  This car – call it Natasha’s
Throne, she said to him.  Skips overland.
Then – in no time at all – he discovers himself
transported to the apex of the Gateway Arch!  &
she who’d haunted poky Hobo hovers – perched
in the air beside him.  What lovely sylph, or elf
be thou? he heard himself mumble, barely
audible.  The cloud-flock dispersed... & he saw
two calm eyes (almond-amber) couch in a brow
(it seemed) of moss, willow, & cypress (shady
grove).  Gowned in a sage green waterfall
with belt of violet, she stood before him
blithely smiling & serene.  I’m Lanthanum-
Queen, you might say – secret, hid from all –
especially from youFor though you’ve known me
from the start – & all your lost-dog yodeling
was spurred by me, & every cherish-interlacing
image in your heart – you missed my quiddity;
folded in profound recess, a sabbath-day
of agape.  The lofty cedar’s but a pine-
needle, fleet limb of water & sunlight;
I’m here to lead you back that way.
          5.8.12

5.02.2012

Lanthanum 10.17



17
A May morning in Providence, early.  As ‘twas
in the beguine (years ago, now) the Terrace
rests (in nestle-mossy blanket).  Cloudy mist
& foggy dew.  & Hobo (lazy Rus) languishes
on his eld bod (park-bench paralysis).  His
yearnful, knotty, portable urn of memory-ash.
In the fog-hover, that craggy chestnut lashed
to the cliff can ply his willies in sorrows –
catenary limbs a-swoon, its leaf-buds’
sweeping shad-runs stripe his slumpish back.
He ogles one torpid peek, along a track of
Rog’s buoyant, granite hand.  Anchored clouds
obscure the so-familiar sightline, learnt
by burnout heart, graven like wagon-rut
– from R.I. through the needle’s-eye (St.
Loser Arch) past monarch-sky – straight
west, to oro-tangy Golden Gate (Hobo’s
Juliet).  Then (blear-eyed) that stretch
of stolen railroad... iron rod, stitched
to the broken range – a-sudden – blooms :
O, from Williams’ outstretched palm, a slight
gray pigeon limps from cliff... a strange
smile slips through the twister-fog... angel?
Limberlost ghost-Joan?  With light-beam flight
she looms (instantly immense) from heartland –
& planted (footspread surfer) on the sunstone
of the gate – like Michal on lion’s back – intones :
Rub-dub, deadbeat, awakeStandTake my hand...
  5.2.12  

4.29.2012

Lanthanum 10.16



16

April woods, ablaze now with the glory
of forgotten wildflowers – hypatica & spikenard
& infant russet bells of honeysuckle, spangled
in cupolas over mass moss-forest on quartzite
cliff (blackened by time).  & all this overflow
of delicate evanescence invites me to botanize
one evasive bloom no hunter will recognize.
Imperturbable, the monarch proceeds (Hobo
mysterioso) toward her cedary home, in Mexico.
She floats past St. Louis, adrift between Cahokia
& Gateway Arch – grand tableland panorama
elongate from river-matrix (Missouri, Ohio...
Ol’ Muddy).  A quality of equality, the plainness
of the plains – Jefferson’s agrarian dream
in river-vortex (Fluvius Jordo Cyclorama).
Here convened, like Pawnee on Inca terrace
(in a game of kings).  Choice game, hid
in Louisiana cypress chest – encrypted there
like a passenger pigeon in cobra-lair.
Eld Indic jade garland, no doubt (mounded
Ameri-pemmican, in meet-me backyard).  Frail-
woven hands tilt above high contrails... you sense
something greater than Jefferson here (immense
thunderheart out of pipestone smoke-trail,
limestone relief).  The micro-minimum
is equal to most humblest monk, in this 
confessional – is Maximus (the meekest,
wisest).  Sunhop-perihelion is also herm :
humming belfry-birds, wringing each crumb
of winding sound from unending waterfalls.
You the microcousin-cosine, Maximus.  All’s
figures, Hobo-fool proclaims (to kingdom
come).                                               
4.29.12

4.27.2012

Lanthanum 10.15




15
Old Hobo, see – h-hand shakes, strokes pigeons
splayed across h-hum-array of keyed-up shades.
As if that bent-rottenèd rote-durn fence had
speared one palm, a glancing blow (sidewinder’s
bronze, or copperhead-positioned hand-breath).
That thick-veined, sandpaper palm even bleeds
a little, aye.  Hey, it peeps through the weeds
of crosshatch lifelines, fateline... all that spent
J-man’s skittery-jaggery 88’s.  As if an orb
lay nestled in a pidgin, sway-dangling ‘pon
wheeze-stablished cedar stool.  Nested dome
or vexèd cave... magnetoreceptive earlobe-
jewel... some loco jeepers-mercator for wingèd
longing (Palm Trio, opus 1132 – or was it 3168?
– forget!).  A lady, loitering in inner lake (wait-
staff in shuddery Lebanon) tripulates childhood
again (Bukovina, & Mendelssohn).  Her J-coat’s
reversible, too – cue for tiny-teeny MOM to
harbor (O m’gal St. Lou-Pea!) yon angled OMO
(muses maiden Maggie, by the fire).  Compost
compôte, geological Hobo-mélange (deep clay
formation – mellifluent limey, in crypt)... only
an aye-aye, in the hand of a hand – bifocal
bond, unbreakable foundation.  Love’s foray
into crane-bone tune – Ocean Rose (smoke-sign
from clouds).  Heart’s closest-secret closet
Sung y’Songe, that only Maggie understood – yet
swaddled in those hills (tight, tight).  Shared.  All.
4.27.12

4.26.2012

Apologia parva pro Lanthanum suum

Lanthanum... I understand how you might grow impatient.  Seems to drone on & on without going anywhere.  But you might read it less like a journey, and more like a curtain, or sail-shroud - flimsy, translucent, wavering back & forth in a sea-breeze.  (Nice to think so, anyway.)

& what's with all this obscurity?  I might be accused of whimsical, even (un)ethical complacency.  My response to that : a poem is a kind of dense singing.  You have to enter it slowly, as into a zone or key different from ordinary communication.  It has its own timbre, texture.  If a poem is not sufficient-unto-itself, it's not really a poem : hence I'm constructing a kind of screen or wall (curtain) of slanting sounds & meanings.

Yet this self-sufficiency is not the same as what was once called "art for art's sake" (during the Symbolist-Decadent era).  Because when we say that poetry is an end in itself, we mean this in the same sense that we speak of the aims of any intellectual or artistic labors.  That is, poetry, along with every other productive labor, is self-sufficient in the context of the infinite, the universal.  We say that the beautiful is simply beautiful; it fulfills its purpose thus in being beautiful.  Science fulfills itself in being true - yet the infinite is part of this truth.  So truth, ineluctably, grows deeper, goes farther - on an endless path, which includes infinity.  The poem - as art, as part of the beautiful - must be an end in itself : but all endings reside within this context of endlessness.  Unending growth, change, renewal, discovery... every poem is a way station, a marker, along this infinitely-shady trail.  So, in the end, there is no such thing as "art for art's sake", though the art work may indeed subsist as a self-sufficient end-in-itself.  Art's self-reliance is always simultaneously contextual, within this infinitely-subtle mystery, the ethic of the whole.


Lanthanum 10.14





14
There is a symmetry in this labyrinth :
a labyrinth of symmetry.  In the quietness
of a fleet rest note, your eye gets lost;
flowery immortals of a garden coming-forth
are coming forth; suddenly, the river-
lines in your palm become 4 rivers, lined
with palms.  Holy, holy, holy... the old
summer camp hymn rose from my quaver-
quivered seahorse-chest (4 crystal knobs,
each with a password to the past).  Rapt
knucklehead I bean (deaf, dumb... unkempt,
sore broken... 57-reproofless) – yet plumb-
bobbed somewise to your 10-string psaltery
of praise!  Good thing to give thanks with.
For the union of reunions... clay eyes (ephphatha)
washed clear, ‘til all is limestone rivenclay (light
salt, a sword of diamond-edge)... & streams of
tears ray through this wide-open manna-earth,
this rotor-branded Brandywine (God’s myhrrth
a fifth-ace, graelic victory)... immersed in love-
kindled kindliness.  O sip & see, Ms. Mystery!
Ever the same shall be, shall be, the curve-drilled
angle-architects carve into time.  Their blarnacle-
sketch (charnel-cartoon) – stick-&-stoned Evie-
man beneath rain-piloted mote-arc – smiles now
in a universal reversal : arch ark in your main-
sail embrace (doubloony to some, no doubt).  I’m
singing around the house  in 7ths (clé of rainbow).
4.26.12  

4.24.2012

Lanthanum 10.13



13
O April’s love-travails!  You led me blind
by whisper-trellis, through the vine-nigh,
vine-high night.  To trace a flicker-shadow
of blue phosphorus (a zig-zag jay).  Inward.
The lens-curve lining of this mini-retina
is as rose coracle, or limpid vesica.  A rude
mandorla (me) filled with scraps of yankanoodle
sails – my papery mis-steps, cul-de-sac accidia-
reports.  Yet from such booty of dearth
you lift me into azure, shade... sheltered
by sentinels of cedar, cypress (cloistered,
grave).  This limestone river-cave – earth-
lapping light-waves leapt from its jaws.  Frieze
bent like a rushing spirit-arc – a waterfall
of overflowing laughter.  Ponte Vecchio guild-
hall, binding the flume of mangled histories...
I cannot build it myself.  Yet heaven is integral.
Yearning, limping one, by the Livingstone-tree,
eternal menorah, you harbor me within feathery
ellipse – so I may not stumble, though I crawl.
& the inward lining of my patchwork, jumble-
sale soul rethreads itself – this heirloom J-
square Coatlicue-shroud (serpentine Jonah).
A Pontifex Maximus smaller than Tom Thumb
or Pushkin’s button spins upon its pinpoint eye
– where Hagia Sophia rides on a bumblebee
toward the North Pole; where Sacajawea
folds up yon aurora-tepee of stars (hey-yo)...
    4.24.12

4.19.2012

Lanthanum 10.12



12

That lone pigeon or mourning dove I saw today
soar like a chip of shale overhead, near India
Point – tail shaped like a paintbrush (Charlie
Burchfield, or maybe Corot) stroked highway

& tenements, bridge, with color. Pigeon-
pigment, rare indigo blue (from rainbow-
throat). Out of whale-scum, offal (phew!)
– urn-pot residue (Hell-rot to Empyrean)...

& so, dark Phoebus, wisdom is justified
in all her children
. The full scale croons
in that arc of clear air. Freedom’s pontoon-
bridge, perihelion-balloon – A-frame filigreed

in gold. Up from low hum of redemption-
brow, a kingly Sheba-curve, full of milk
& hard questions. Memphis garbage-strike
groan-crown, toward equilibrium... O Zion-

Jubilee! – all through earth, & blue-gray
sea. & for me? Only a pokey mosey
down Dove St., where we used to be. &
are, J-bird... a pair of cleated arms (spooky).

This, O seraphic weld of bread & wine...
apex-draft up lofty sweep (of stealthy
steel). Rescue for tramping misery
to recognition of a molten trine :

bees’ hula-hoop of union-domes, melodious
facet o’ sun-filed Rocky Face. Peters-
burg’s nocturne-glow (radiant perimeter’s
tremulous Point.). Rust-trestle. Us.

4.19.12

4.17.2012

Lanthanum 10.11



11

What, then, be this weird whispered word?
A one-note Churley, unhorsed – housed hidden
in lone-Okie corral? What secret gradient in
Hen’s 57-sauce – him ‘sippy recipe? Not absurd

so to inquire (for the sake of the choir, even).
Like a smoldering branch (willow, cottonwood)
dowsed in Jordan-water... from childhood
y’broodish Uther-Usher dragged his penned-

in pen... if only to seed & behold his own
flowering booktree. Dawn, Jonah whale-road
swoop-fled – fell asleep in olive grove (snored,
ivy knave). Ever the prod-gal seediness was,

is, sown. Not to be saved, either – burnt
lumber, embers, vacant lottery – except
within immeasurable charity – infinite
& feisty magnanimity (emerald welder’s

mint). Where we look to. Across the standing-
wavy grain, in an evening bronze (bellissima)
of aquamarine – alchemical grail-gleam o’
laughy-whaweh. Tough trough cresting,

stiffening to clear spring agate-whorl (your aqua
firma
– diamond). From yon vortex-pinnace
of steep crow’s nest – walnut in his chest,
blazing doubloon – waved octahedral sunlight,

everywhere the same (Quito equality)!
Rose warmth of fluttery there-not-there...
close by. Draw near. Through ye man-door...
do re mi fa so – (unison). O taste & see.

4.17.12

4.16.2012

Lanthanum 10.10



10

While Hobo was sleeping, like Frankie the tramp –
like the rest of us, with our cramped little dreams
in the garden of our lives (didn’t amount, it seems,
to mulch) – his soul was training her reading lamp

– planted aloft, in crow’s-nest made of birch-bark
(hidden in a pine). & so he played the shadow
of its abiding milk-train light. Hear that horn blow
now, silver, serene (silverine) across the sylvan

river-dark! The float moves upstream, serpentine,
while you doze... honey-melded servant-of-servants
on fleecy ship-sway (Sheba, Sheba). From Memphis
trance to St. Lou needle’s-eye (mandorla-medallion).

& as I sprawled there with Hobo, like a wastrel
in a weed-patch, I looked up... traced the path
that lantern traversed (arch over earth-borne
wrath). As if one soul stepped back from Hell

as from an empty well – stood upright at last
like diamond out of crystal cave – & sketched
an octahedron for the six directions (circumflex
of windy symmetry). To be an anchor – ballast,

balance (scaled to weight us). & all my heart’s
bewildered memories, remorseful hope
raveled upon that upright star-pole – sloped
to Bukovina, Karelia (vertical text of finish-start).

Prone upon earth, like Frank the tramp (spread-
eagled bounder) she lifted me (that Sheba-soul)
& all my dead with me (JB in the snow... HC
in the delta... Juliet at the gate). Into sun-shed.

4.16.12

4.06.2012

something for holiday weekend

from near the end of long poem Forth of July. (For some reason Blogger doesn't allow for spacings within lines, between words... so you'll just have to guess where they are, or read the original - see link below.)

8

With dove in one hand and flower
in the other she is Spring she
lifted him from Sea of Galilee
to the top of Mount Moriah

where he danced a sun-dial
in circles a sparrow or
goldfinch singing Time Now
Here from my hands All fly free

*

And the weavers wove a barge
of reeds to float to the delta
where a child of a Sheba
and slave bore the scourge

of the lash into the litter
where the line met lightning
and blood met water tightening
a sandstone gall (pennyroyal bitter)

*

The linen like clouds
molded to the face
congeals a last
thunderstorm rolls

drums and trumpets
light hoofbeats girlish
Scythians mold each wish
from twigs the mordant sets

*

Sunrise by the garden tomb
enters as through oarlocks
of a slave's galley she knocks
lightly and the gloom

dissolves and the stone grows
lighter and the Man of
Sorrows' eyes open (La
nuech vai el jorns ve
he says)

4.24.2000



(entire poem here, in pdf. format : Forth of July )

4.05.2012

Lanthanum 10.9

9

Skipping its T-Rex rope of entropy, inanimate
matter loops toward equilibrium. A steady date
of stasis (nether word for...). As the late
(always) poet put it : stone waits (immaculate

coagulate) like pudding for the fire.
We’ve been here before. Rahab, Ethiopia...
we were born here (among burnt rocks,
ephemera). Bring aqua firma for the hired

fellaheen
! From where? From Hula Mountain
(yon Hawaii-mint island). Pacific grapefruit
gratias, fearless, unbreakable... specific
gravitas-hilaritas of All-My-Springs

(Itasca-fount). Mid-day sunshine beams
through disintegrated hexagons (April
adrift) – like mini-Hagia-Sophia dwelling-
wells, translucent hovercraft-triremes...

(fond shadow bending toward the lens).
One pink-gray eye looks up from dusty piles
of boots, at horizon’s edge : rough hobo-style
sketches her mollusk musculature (painful

conditional, vocational arc). &, groaning
so, stone leaps into groinèd arch – diamond
scrapes ice from still-born, chilly Neverland –
what was salted away, slowly waltzing, turns...

In the miracle of a lowly portal, hoary gates
are lifted eyebrows : your labyrinthine matrix
of forgotten streets melds into honeycomb-helix.
This man was born there (Golden Law Estates).

4.5.12

3.21.2012

Lanthanum 10.8



8
Man was put on this earth for one purpose : to make civilization
– Joseph Brodsky

So this newborn spring curls from sleep, a moss-
green fiddlehead along the Ms. Riv. A wrinkled
dry Rip (his bones waxed old from dammed-
up roaring). Shaken awake amid squalid chaos –

ramshackle shacks, contraptions, conniptions...
Shady contrail (pine-needle Cézanne). Lingering,
elderly, nearby, Shoshanna (naiad-Diana, fluting
in Renoir petal-shower). O dappled conceptions!

Slanting (double-time) across fishing-grounds,
bass-line salmon arrays. A regnant monarch
butterfly, aimless & amiable (Melchizedek’s
wine-flowy picnic basket – milkweedy lost-&-

found) goes drifting by (through evening arroyo).
With the specific gravity of a lightweight meteor
homing, homing, oh my gal (gringo dem Russkies
O
). To a high pine mound of black limestone –

meet Bethel meetin’-place (Ojib’s midé dream-
spot). Secret mental elevation, or lateral L
near as the whorl in Homer’s fingertip (well,
well
). Your own heart’s raveling Cyrillic dhowry-

anthem (Sheba-Natasha). Seed-grain, Scythian
tattoo-scar, Ypsilanti-refrain... wild dusty haylo-
fado
(out of iron bedsprings nord o’Duluth).
Such be the serpentine bronze signals chosen

to meld like honey-vein in rock. A solidarity
of fern-things first : that we live in a place
emphatically our own
(& that this emphasis
is as calm palm on child’s hot brow). Hilarity.

3.21.12

3.20.2012

Lanthanum 10.7



7

So spring comes in, comes in moist morning glow
across this gawky adolescent chaos - a girlish,
coltish land of cluttered yards. In baby-lambish
lambent air, that temple-dome on Morris Avenue

smiles toward the young sun her honey-gold reply,
& Henry is quietened with flighty V-swarms of half-
memories. Phantom birchlands of Karelia (Nabokov
tamarack mnemonics) summon a Kievan panoply

of iron bells. Upon their tidal drone he would lift up
Byzantium in both hands, and, kneeling, offer Ilion
to impress Empress (haloed in sheen-cape of a trillion
eyebrows’ dolphin-leaps). From rudimentary cliff-top

he would lean his shade across a continent,
raise his Juliet-Eurydice from harbor-grave –
two ghosts re-muscled in one clamshell wave
(one pearl-encumbered comber). Affectionate

fundament of every wedding is, this tout-monde
pre-imprinted printemps (haunted brood-nest
rook-a-coo)... just so the template-test
of each vocation is, an infant meekness (curving

round). Mercy & truth are met together;
righteousness & peace have kissed each other;
truth shall spring out of the earth
... mother of
each sunburnt thorn, high-hearted counselor –

Hagia Sophia of the blood-soaked cottonwood.
How scarlet veins of mute servants filter through
vast fields of birth-pangs (pain-pinioned, labor-crew
planet)! Walk me toward your equinox, ochre redbird.

3.20.12

How to Read a Bit o'Balderdash

America & world, a-roar with a disintegrating mosquito swarm of conflicting pointers, alerts, trumpet-blasts... read this! Look at that! Listen up!

How many billions of poets are there, now? At least 6-7 billion, according to the official 7,000 poetry supervisors. Pay attention!

What am I supposed to do? Keep writing gibberish. It's a long-term, serious project, very much worth your time & careful research - Gobbledy-Gook Enterprises (GGE).

What follows : a few shallow remarks meant as helpful hints to the most recent episode of Lanthanum (see Lanthanum 10.6, below).

The poem was written on St. Patrick's Day, hence is "occasional". Differing from much other Lanthanum in featuring silly Irish brogue in my recital.

(In case you are new here, I've been in the groove of an unusual (for me) literary haybaling process : I write the poem & then immediately recite the poem, & send it out to YouTube et al. It is really hot off the frying pan into the social media.)

St. P : patron saint of Ireland. Bringer of Christianity to Eire. That is the traditional understanding, anyway. As I understand it, a saint's day is a kind of birthday, name day.... they're all related.

The poems in Lanthanum are all related too, so there is some accretion, some sedimentation of echo-meanings & feedback-loops.

Lanthanum, over the last few years & chapters, has been circling around, gyring down closer & closer, the Gateway Arch Monument in St. Louis (there we go, another saint). It's a tuning fork, a mandala, a symbol... an amalgam (steel alloy) of many different things. An arty, imaginary idea of a kind of focal point, joining America (US) to earlier things & future things. That's the idea, anyway.

But let's look at this episode. The "poet-speaker" Henry, or "King Hen", is musing about saints & saint's days. Meanwhile there is an undercurrent of cryptic allusions & meanings gathering. In the 2nd stanza, "hid in his live-oak mist" etc. begins to point secretly to 2 different "once-&-future kings" : Bonnie Prince Charlie, and Charles II of England, whose birthday (May 29) is celebrated in England as "Oak Tree Day" or Restoration Day - recalling the drama, during the English Civil War,
of Charles hiding in an oak tree from pursuing Roundheads. Now May 29th happens to be the poet's (Henry's) birthday too, as well as of that other Camelot-figure, JFK. It also happens to be Rhode Island Statehood Day.

Our speaker moves along into stanza 3, recalling that Emperor Henry, promoted to "doorkeep". This is referring to St. Henry (II), whose "day" in the Catholic church used to be July 15th, which happens to be the day, in 1099, that the crusaders captured Jerusalem and reached the Holy Sepulchre. The "doorkeep" is a reference (one of many) to the Psalms - the line which runs something like "I would rather be a doorkeeper in the House of the Lord than one of these mighty princes".

But then Henry (poet) shifts his glance to another St. Henry : "the martyr - on the Finnish line". This is a different Henry - the patron saint of Finland. His day is January 19th ("juneteenth") - a birthday he shares with Martin Luther King - MLK, the "Milky Way" of stanza 3 - major symbolic figure throughout Lanthanum. So Henry is finding a "silver thread" from various saints through to the meanings of Lanthanum : since the Gateway Arch is in some ways a Finnish accomplishment (cf. its architect, Saarinen).

Thus in this "amiable tabernacle" (another paraphrase of the Psalmist), Hen might "touch a key, perhaps". This phrase a direct steal from Hart Crane's poem The Bridge (another America monument poem) - from the section called "The River" - in praise of tramps, hobos - whom Crane suggests "touch a key" : are in touch with the tacit, feminine, American earth (in contrast to the American world of worldliness & power).

In the 1st line of the 4th stanza we come across the phrase "bonny advent" : punning-Joycean reference to another St. - St. Bonaventura - whose saint's day is also July 15th.

Thus the poet-hobo Hen, in his dreaming tabernacle (seeing through rose-tinted "Rhody-glasses") is beginning to imagine a sort of visionary America centered on the St. Louis arch, "affirming ascent" (Crane's "spiritual gates"). Its substance is a sort of Irish "lightsome glee" inspired by the thought that the entire cosmos, the universe of reality & experience - is manifested out of nothing through some kind of benign-wise-loving creative-mysterioso Whatnot : so that "the stars shout together for joy".

& then (stanzas 5-6) the poet imagines lying himself down at that "milky entrance" - stretching out his whole length, as in the Robt. Frost poem - on the earth; strumming his "harp". & he becomes a kind of giant there : like Paul Bunyan or Babe his blue ox. With a "heart like Hobo" (Hobo is compared to Falstaff in earlier episodes) and a "mine deep as Prince Hal" (another once & future king). From Providence - where the vision begins - to San Francisco, at the Golden Gate (another structure which plays a big role - Orphic-Eurydice tending - in H.'s oeuvre). "Through the needle-eye" of the Gateway Arch. ("Omega-MO" is a complex pun which will likely see further development in future episodes, better left unsaid here.).

So we have an east-west line, where the hobo-poet stretches from RI to California. Then in the last stanza we have a perpendicular south-north line (from LA delta to l'Etoile du Nord ("star of the north" - Minnesota). The body of Hen-poet, lying across America, sketches a cross-shape. There is a sketch of an emblem here in the final stanza which has cropped up many times in Lanthanum in various ways ; a sort of graffiti figure of a stick-man shaded by a curving arch or wing. It could be a sepulchre (a cross marked on a grave); it could be a person standing under an arch or portal.

But here in this stanza, the symbolic emblem flips over ("like Lazarus"). The giant lying in the earth stands up. Finnegans Wake, might be. & becomes an outline of another symbolic emblem : the figure of a stick-man on the cross-beams of a large anchor, with his feet on the curving base of the anchor. This happens to be the official emblem of the Episcopal Bishop of Rhode Island (a crucifixion on an anchor) : since RI's state motto is "Hope" and its state symbol, an anchor. So the poem circles back to Rhode Island, where it began (with those "saints", Roger Williams & William Blackstone).

Hopefully my strenuous unpacking here will encourage a few readers to explore the undertones in other parts of this giant piece of balderdash now underway (Lanthanum, work in progress).

p.s. & bear in mind, the western edge of this 4-leaf clover - San Francisco - is named after yet another saint - Francis, of Assisi : the greatest "hobo" of them all.

3.17.2012

Lanthanum 10.6



6

A cool St. Pat’s day, cloudy-gray – from mourning
to gaiety, sackcloth to sun-shield... good day
to read Joyce & be glad thereof
, I say, sez
old King Hen, mit peacepipe in mitt – harpening

away, hid in his live-oak mist (like the bunny-
hop charlie-horse once-&-future he wuz). Saints’
aliv
e, he mumbles – saints’ days, saints’ days...
there was that Emperor Henry, promoted to doorkeep...

& that other, the martyr – on the Finnish line
with the Milky Way, one January (juneteenth) –
silver-gray hairline, secret thread, methinks
...
& musing, ambling into amiable tabernacle, Hen

might touch a key, perhaps. Some bonny advent
come wheeling like St. Elmo’s fire over quaternio-
clover earth, sprung-wound... some old green Eire
through Rhody-glasses, sure, affirming ascent –

aye, lightsome glee, when the stars shout together
for joy, at emerald Danae’s immaculate &
milky entrance! & he will lie down then with his
delicate harp, & strum... I say he will stretch far

& wide, like Bunyan (or his Babe), with a heart
like a Hobo, a mine deep as Prince Hal, he will –
Providence to San Francisco, through the needle-
eye (Omega, MO) – from basement chord out

of delta swamps, upstream (ahh... l’Etoile du Nord) :
& that shield of dove-grey tuning-fork (pronged
in the tumulus) will... flip! (like Lazarus) – O, almond
of anchor-smile! Hoisting sail (blue-grim grinrood).

3.17.12

3.16.2012

Lanthanum 10.5



5

In Frisco, cornered by a sunlit wall, a tramp
erupted utterance... mush streaming
from the cornet of’s mouth. Wholesome-
boomy Hal spake : Get thee behind me, scamp!

When Luna least thanks a wisp a’will, minced Hobo
right back Adam. Noli me tangere, kerfluffled
Hen. Nolo contendere, that punk rebuffed.
A draw. Put up thy pup, rabid boho.

Robo t’you (thus th’insouciant bum, beneath
his breath) – we needle each udder, blubber.
S’all milk to me. S’ain’t finn yet, brooder –
jailbird – j’martyr Memphis’d me Hyatt be’eth
,

bee-fur I J-teenth! So we mutt-scrumble trough-
boskets of this nonesince-amulet (whupped &
wisked) before the chanticleers... before air
mops honeydew from sunlift, double yew-

inscribed (hengraved). His tipsy-cupsy crust-
warp walks thick plonks of a legal case, yawl – !
Pretty dingy, if y’ask me, plunks Peter Pull
the silo-manx (fezzy catamaroon). If y’mast,

replied the prince (omni-puss’d). Meanwhile
plankton swimmy’d t’freedom (drawn by light-
mote, ship-shape frame) – sketched an infinite
Gödel-scaffold (aflame). Resonance-turnstile,

tensile mappemunde. One pianissimo octave-
span, from Westerly porch to parked car
on fry-pan... through noodle-eye. By river,
bound. Beneath North Star (Finn’s architrave).

3.16.12

3.15.2012

Lanthanum 10.4



4

Hobo shakes his shaky Shrovetide palm
with a handful of doubled (iced). Dicey, this
wistful one; not congregate with the mighty.
Yet his heart greatly rejoiceth (Bum

Smiles Thru Tears
). Your sadness (flighty-
voluminous)... much like these little gnats
weaving brief light-show shawl (Psyche-
parasol) by trunk of tremendous, defunct, once-

&-future mighty oak. Be aware, idiot-gods
of marching, of your ideas... be wary that
nevertheless, thru volleys of mockery, night
may befall, leftenant (in autumn... harvest-

odes, funereal, grimpen). That oak a craggy cliff
lifting bracken-alms toward sun’s cloud-muffled
azure (tall remnant of marigold). Tuft
of milkweed memory, its cloud released (gift

of dead bees). O vagrant monarch, wandering
batman-baton! Under the volcano
of your unbelief... coraggio, amigo! Sow
your seedling myrrh, amnesiac Madaleña...

bully, Dionysiac! Arch like the nut you are,
Maggie Mick o’Magnesia – these numbers
do not lie! Wailing Miners Strike! (umber
vein... violet bread, wine). Them bearers

ford a rude saw-theater (hands’ operations)
– one dust-encumbered ailing Railman splits
the night (with Queen of Spades, nitwits!). O
most-artefactual Atlantis Rose – congratulations!

3.15.12

Come Thou fount of every blessing

Lanthanum 10.3



3

Hobo, in the delta (near Florida) wandered
beside levees of the sea. Pocatapetl
fumed in bright ether, somnolent. Little
Maggie McGee kept an eye on him (remembered).

How he sketched things he barely heard, saw.
Like that funnel-cloud of Okeanos (angry
flipside of a smile) – that Feininger
photogravure, Stella-vortex (Stella!) – hot

n’tot’s wormhole, quicksand-burning (Africa).
Poor baby in a crib of delta gamblers
(chance wobbles on waves, where wagers
mince). Green envy's iceberg-throne (back, back).

The conscience-stricken ne’er-do-well bears
premonitions of returning (rose-golden ore-
liquorice of honeyed limestone)... & if he
does, he will be welcomed there. He shares

their scrivened waiting – lento, Lenten
(compassion-harbor, patient-solidarity)
of understanding all compact (charity’s
emblem, seal-wide, spindrift)... done.

I will enquire regarding the plain path
to the pavilion (your sacrifice of joy).
Your house. Your tabernacle (oh boy,
swallow-shadow
) – your gate of wrath.

Behold, a small green whirr, over rock
in secret thunder-spot : where
Cherokee crossroad (fern theater)
aligns a flame (hummingbird hummock).

3.14.12

3.13.2012

Lanthanum 10.2



2

It was 11:32, not far from midnight.
Drowsy Hobo nodded, weary... heard a whisper
nigh. Give ear, sleepwalking shepherd; here.
He stumbles forward, blessed with sight

through stubby fingers. Gaze on that bloom
afloat o’er rhizomatic limestone, there

(between the cherubim) – its violet flare.
Hobo squints... his fuzzed vision (broken zoom

lens) wavers... notes the luminous periphery
(a halo round the moon). Then, like magnifying
glass on August grass – a flame! Whizz-flying
toward him – face to face! He turns away...

Who dwelleth in the man-door, there?
In the man-door there, who dwells
? the bird-
voice warbled, crooned. Soft grey-wing soared...
The sudden overwhelming sweetness of your

omnipresence, everywhere : the center
of centers is dispersed like seeds of fire
.
& like a silver keyboard of sea-waves, or
molten hive through mandala-perimeter

(Argus-eyed Hagia Sophia) this water-
whorl (tender hurricane of tears) led
Hobo on forsaken track, through Land
of the Dead... toward sound of laughter!

The mystery lingers near the sunlit stone.
Limestone Evening Land... whirl-mound.
Kurgan of conscience-riven bards. Fond
spires... Homer-come-home (wrung clean).

3.13.12

3.11.2012

Lanthanum 10.1



1
Heaven is integral. – O. Mandelstam

Slouched across St. Louee misery-pallet, Hobo
clammed his eyelids... glimpsed a grey-eyed,
gold-filamental sister-bird (spark-flared
in mordant gilt). Mosaic Regina (Sheba-baa

of shepherd kings). & given that Man
might just be a just man (how long?) – pregnant
on ecumenical cliffside with all-human covenant –
so Hobo, humble bumble-poet, might just scan

his premonition into line; things yet unseen
by man nor beast, unsaid – how to enunciate
this annunciation, van der Weyden? Implicate
with slippery clay-signals, the tacit dove-croon

of belated lambkid world, impending,
peaceable – 50 cycloid-states of a gentle
Jubilee. Global pearl (yoked, ornamental,
pendant) : nestled aye in 10-fingered palm

of shady urning (oak, willow, tamarack...
a milky cottonwood, pining). & to behold
there (in feminine Psyche-mirror) untold
unfoldments, from shroudy clouds, Micmac...

For we know the higgledy-piggledy history-
tapestry already : bayou of battle-axes, dented
helms, lead, bronze... an endlessly-reiterated
fool’d of cloth of gilt. Yet this magnetic sliver-

mystery – parable-density of clamped-on
unknown (Private Ewe?) – begins to drone
from primordial Cahokia-lump... & rise (halo-
zone)... mossy spacegerm-collage in river-cavern

(over-&-underwoven). & as the gate of dreams
is a reality-porthole... so this granary-grail of
loafy clamurmuring might lift the whole whorled
rose window into place (sighing up berm-streams).

3.11.12

3.06.2012

Lanthanum 9.24



24
Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors

Providence, ye forest of whispering hands.
Compassionate mutter-potter generations’
unknown grey purring multitudinous dove-
downy town (integrity of heartfelt hopelands).

At the eastern cliffside, under an arch
of Westerly granite, eyeing the interior,
facing the labyrinth... RW. Our double-
you, double-ewe. Cézanne might touch

yon roughened fatherly profile with horsehair
warmth of color, bare outcrop of vivid green;
who glimpsed a hopeful artichoke-yet-unseen.
Those who’d impose belief by force have never

known my companionable Lord... in the end
their faith’s in tyranny itself
(lost to a God
of shepherds & of lambs). Thy rod, & thy
staff, they comfort me
(not destroy : defend)

affectionate friend. & as chloride + sodium
blend into salt of earth – as +&- interfuse &
waltz in each golden atom – as those pillars
(Jachin, Boaz) stand (portals of Jerusalem,

brothers) so th’twin tablets of your Coke-in-
still’d Law unite (at ladder-foot of universal
scale). Nature’s donated golden rule of civil
commonweal (simply : fair, kind & true) folk

(Turk, Greek & Jew) can follow, understand;
& if they climb yet further, might take hold
of that steel cruciflex-anchor (as he foretold) –
bells’ pain-carved gate. Heights’ helping hand.

3.6.12

3.03.2012

Lanthanum 9.23



23

In a cabin cradled by snow & tamaracks, sore-
troubled Blackstone communed with his heart
in the night. Traced a fine curve eastward
(grey grainy graphite) from l’étoile du nord

into faint pale green-violet pre-dawn light
(opalescent, sweet). Unknown path, ellipse
of surf-steps... aslant a black inscrutable sea.
Out of blind fogs, a lens-canoe – its bowsprit

like a fiddlehead – frond of solemn fern-barge
in procession (distant funeral, in Colchis).
Suddenly WB beheld (swaddled in azure mist
over womb-dream) a limpid silhouette emerge.

Prisoner, exile – tongueless, handless. Dragged
through penumbral valley toward his doom.
Yet stood there (pregnant salt) so calm!
His frame a phosphorus glee-beam – ragged,

magnificent – thus this penetrating spirit
(meek monk Maximus) rose (knot-bound)
into Blackstone’s sea-scoured horizon – found!
Almond nuptial memoir-ring (moss-green circlet

of rust) hidden in neglected dovecote pockets,
old wild graybeard shepherds’ folds. Still water-
droplets, radiating through irenic granaries
(remote, deep wells). Sheepish prophets

rest secure there, in forested chorale-corral –
bathed in unfathomable réunionyes, who cherishes
frail rightness of each lambkin... O magnanimous
acknowledgment – Joy-Cognizance – O playpen Pal!

3.3.12

3.02.2012

Lanthanum 9.22



22

This choleric scholar sticks unto bridgework
of our Commonweal like wax
, like gum
the caustic bulls of Boston grumble – loony-
bin’s too goo for ‘um
(Blackstone)! some smirk.

All surround me, stare... riding my sweatball
out of town. Salt cleaving to my mouth...
my hapless boneyard, shockloss (gone south,
m’darlin’). Only green lantern of yon soul

am left alone (concertina’d quail – colluding
in concrete St. Paul?). Believe we must leave
the killing out, when all is done
, croaks Steve
th’admirable stevedore (prologue for broody-

turtledove’s 6-flagon’d falcon-eye). Moonshine
his horse’s name : who left the dell of a blow-
stump squeal imprinted in Medea-snow
(Medusa-cur). Mingled labdanum w’fine

snift of myrrh, to enhaunt her nautical J-
chamois (dune-croon’d, fiddling coxcomb
runnymedever with gilt guile-odium... some
fie-mint, pap-crush’t, papoose marais-

enfant). His candle was mortal. Lightweight.
Seedy, clearly (not long for this rude road,
by Joad). So Blackstone, Wm. & Wms. (beaded
Thisbe twins, eaglets) fled : felt through the salty

law (égalité) : unto the end. As did the Psalmist
(poor Jay Burrytroy) whose pastel mural-church
(in lambent milieu of Romania) rinses from ash
of books – Bukovina. & Mendelssohn. A misty
*
glissando... lissomeek sheepswhorlsack’s unshorn
Seekonk-continuum (goldbread dark almond oui).
Where ewe-kids frolics Yvonne’s fado fodder-sky
& (eva-hopeful) wonders... so’rs o’ star is bairn’d.

3.2.12

3.01.2012

Lanthanum 9.21



21

Gleam on, great halo’d moon (in Hobo’s dream).
Gneiss angle, mica (garnet promotions). Horn
the dark red wine (trombone, Louis). Borne
‘pon multidirectional nuptial smile – eld step-dame,

waning (winsome smith). Beached over leeward
delta, sauntering... planted Pocahontas-canoe.
Parallactic pair of parlous turtles – whose
fin-smooch welds one plummet-sword

octet (Ravlin bluejay... midsummer halcyon).
& that face in N’Orleans moon leans north-
ward, upstream... toward frail martyr-mirth
of’n odd country longbeard (even Henryman).

O wheeling west now, Virginia... ben-Lenten
cruiser. Poor shepherd’s irritable strain
sheer Oz cruxifinnicky-fiction, in th’rain
(as live ammo wells up... tears foundation).

Hobo-pantomime... torch-limb yearning
toward miniature myrrhbox, at censer
of an ear. Where four horses canter
sof-sof boomerangs (purr-purring

char-choir). Hobo files alley frankincense
in portable mirror (Madeleine’s) – saves
daylight goop like bit o’honey (waves
a-tumble, bumblebee). Hence,

knave. Seine once more into sown
bran-grain, cast-along river-ice (grand
brain). Slow, slow, lazy Russian. Spend,
expend your dream, Oblomov (glass-blown).

3.1.12

2.29.2012

Lanthanum 9.20



20

So Hobo slips back into sleep, as of old –
where he’s at home (in midst of the earth).
Axes & hammers have ceased their wrath
against wooden parentheses... now hold

only one limpid terrace’s clear air. Morning’s
milky smoke lay bridled there, in its oaktree
tabernacle; the habitations of cruelty
slept like Rome; the turtledove’s moaning

sheltered thy servant’s quivery leaf-shield
(enfolded, plunging salience... lips’ lyre-
lair... foam-shell). At cusp of the year,
when John-John leapt in the wheatfield

of his trove-tomb : at the Jubilee (that
Sabbath-crown – that end-of-Mayan, 52-
pickup, jade-coral hoop-game). O I.O.U.
of every wombat womb-man... O magnet

fiat, implicate – each etched, emboldened
van der Weyden infant, limned – frescoed
afresh, today! Beneath a concrete cloud
of solid dark, the bubble-level (liquid

pearl) suspends its calm, magnanimous balance;
between that sunray in the portal-eye
& crypt of Minnehaha-Paradise (ebony-
spanned ivory 88s) there is a river-entrance...

you’ve been there, Hobo; you swam
with the 28 young braves, under the sun;
the 29th (like overhanging lichen), doubling...
finished (the day). She loved; you are, I am.

2.29.12

2.28.2012

Lanthanum 9.19



19

In shady Galilee of a burnt-out Lent
& far from his Mississippi home, Hobo
catches, barely... the slender tremor (low
coign) of his repentance. His recovery tent.

Only an inkling... slight tendering of air.
Through shuddering snakeskin screen –
scaled pattern of dogwood leaves (green
gone rusty). A nest, a tabernacle... lair

of late winter sun. Whose coming-forth
as bridegroom, racing hearth to hearth
is cherished there, in her byre of earth...
in sunset-land (east, west, south, north).

At the antipodes (remotest heights & depth).
And it was like hearing a keen through a pillar
of glass – an orphan cry, looped in a mirror
swerving, like a wing, out to its azimuth

(a still grey glint). Then steep descending
streak through grassland (flashing silver-
gold) plummets into river’s undertow
where (on a bank) his pals are gathering

& smoke (for their wispy signals, lifting,
gone). Our W, he blabs to someone...
JB, J-tree... she plants a wild, sown
key in me
, he moans. Soon, son. Swiftly,

arose. Toward yon high room, & the great
Thanksgiving feast – calling all lumberjacks,
winos, sadsacks from Hackensack... Maximus
& Walt shall shofar tout; Madeleine to celebrate.

2.28.12

2.25.2012

Lanthanum 9.18



18

Within moist mollusc-husk of February pre-spring
on Prospect St. (outside the French House)
the little witch-hazel behind the wall lets loose
improvisations of gold leaf – her pliant blazoning

pent by chill wind. Early diviner, bent like Hobo
just tipping the keys (in Mendelssohn, maybe).
Leafpile mandorlas of wide gold laid siege to Heidi
there – blonde matrix & epitome (little sorrow-

tree, foretold). Tends thus his balance-beam,
Hobo, upon his shoulder... retrograde flame’s
importunate command, transposing that skim’s
taut-plaited graft. Hurt knight’s lamb-dream

across straitened chafening tightrope (aimless,
airborne). So the arc of arcs curves back
to the crackling hearth of Blackstone’s
own Quauhnahuac (yon implicate rubellipse,

myrrhrose). Limns the sunburst labyrinth
of Chartres, where Hobo inches (inch by inch...),
obswerves the hilarious limp of her firstborn. Cinch,
Blaise. The light’s manifest (emerald absinthe,

Vincent). & all this nonsense for a pin-
pricked star! Scythia-gold (Sheba-forsythia)
above mown grass; a handful of corn will flow
in brooks from the mountaintops (amen, Martin).

Blessed be his redemption-name. Because Love
is unstanchable fire’s (whirl-fabricladding, star-
enflashioning, volcán-swaheeling) sheer choir
y’Hawaii. Moltenscarred heart (hearth-stove).

2.25.12

2.22.2012

Lanthanum 9.17



17

Just now, the quiet churchbell plumbed b-flat
across the street. Ash Wednesday evening,
mild as April; watercolor air; soft brooding
drone. Yet thoughts turn round, like Lot

back to that January bridge – the frozen salt
of ice-trapped years (yours, Henry-man) –
the drift-down, say, of one white hexagon
into your palm (taut fiery snow-mote)

...before you go. Into that Resurrection
Cemetery
, south of St. Paul... your narrow-
leaf slate silo, camper; your flinty sled, below
Siberian snow-surf (32,000 flakes, fraction

rings of permafrost stenographers). You are
just that far gone, eld Irishman. & yet
your lines declineth too, toward pleasant
faces... I mean the twin cities of Natasha’s

eyes : those agate portals, fusing labyrinth
of threadbare lips – faring with you (by harp
& psaltery) – hoisting you from earthdepth
once again! In limpid eyespan (Arimathea)...

Her tiny snowgrain, set like fire in hearth
a lemon-crumb, a-tingle on your tongue
framed by a train-horn’s rusty iron lung
worn silver now, gone resonant... inclineth

thine ear now, little ant, to green proverb
lifting its brow like tendril of a rainbow-
wing – skyward, through rain & snow
climbing, ellipse (unleavened herb).

2.22.12

2.21.2012

Lanthanum 9.16



16

Mardi Gras. Ash Wednesday eve. & if
I sketch RW (or double-U) striding there
through Westerly portal, the whiz-whisper
trumpet of pursed lips his gift

for all – O happy equilibrium of
semaphore-claw, high pining air (all-
human hills). Soon my shifty scribble
shimmers in bleak graphite mote-gleam

(Venus Beats All, lead #2) – takes on
manners of ‘nother (eyebright) hand;
hurrosgamos gathers momentum (land-
ho!) – I seize a ladder up to heaven –

footfall-pyramid of Hobo, Blackstone,
Maximus (hard to explain!). A leopard-
spiral toward universal ensign-standard...
clear coral triangle, minuscule madeleine

of speechcrumb qubitspark – circumzenter
navvy-worm (blue SF-sphere above gate-
prong). & for such hymn she make date
crow last, & verily (her spanner-cantor).

Only a dram of octave-dream, from La-
Soo
land up to l'Etoile du Nord. By way
of a crust of snow-crunched pain – eye-
burnt Magdalen, sharp Siena-saint (aha-

delight!) who ran all the way (make haste,
my God
!) through the leaden garden gate...
toward you. Maximus designed his ancient
intricate epithalamium (beyond those wasted

poppy-fields) in the moonlit night seasons
of stony Trebizond. Blackstone listened...
squandered coaldust turned to diamond.
Ask JB (Cora Clay... her flotations).

2.21.12

2.14.2012

Lanthanum 9.15



15
i.m. M.A.G.

Sunset, walking home up Hope tonight –
a kind of smelter’s glow out of Van Gogh.
A glassblown alloy spun round that rose-
gold eye – sapphire, emerald, set in a tight

brown casket (earthshade). Evening mirror
from a brow just north of Angell Street.
Slim susurrus over the mansion (Italianate,
clad in dark wine) where oak leaves linger –

& you would pine for your conjectured J (vale,
valentine). Imago... my Psyche. So we project
an extended forecast, in familial yokel dialect –
just as you were your brother’s summer double

in that Twin Cities’ dovecote (over the wrinkling
winking river). A part of song (appoggiatura,
grace note) paired with his major delta D –
sprightly, bittersweet, solitaire (a twinkling

clarinet, Octavia). We carry the gilt icon
too close for care : such compatible leanings
as dreams are multicolored coatings, filling
hollers with excess 8th-notes (Pygmalion’s

pig-latin). Hunky dory was the children’s ark
until the last dog bark – a curial star, a rose
of Charon. Then we mourn our double (her ruse
our loss). Under that April horn a’plenty (mark

the date, Sylvester) – by tentative frail tents
of Providence, yearlings of clay. Our moon,
cast in an antique shell (death-mask... pontoon...
fish-fly). Granddad’s bronze bugle. Frankincense.

2.14.12

2.07.2012

Lanthanum 9.14



14
i.m. John H. ("Jack") Birss

After much falsework – skittering expenses
in a waste of swaying bucks – Marwan (cinnamon
cat with greenfire eyes) will arch his tendons
through the cunning rug. All’s in play (fearless)

at last. While Diego hunches up the cloudy steps
with shifting temblor on his back – an al fresco
infancy. Fat babies, mild-eyed povero...
Guadalupe-sombrero... so homeliest precepts

prove most beautiful (what’s mine is yours).
But not from nowhere, their swift circular –
great was the public company self-anchored
there, on hinge pipe beam, deadmen, girders

2047 feet from shore to shore (saddled
with sacrificial sections of weakened steel).
It was 28 young braves, lifting centripetal
lightbeams – a pendant, bending self-addled

streams toward soldered reunion (unseen
yet feathered silver, with a yellow crown).
& a 29th bather in ark of oak – unknown
& apostolic turtledove’s ecumenical grain –

her sea-salt shanty’s banked in a riverbed.
Come with me then, down to the water’s edge
where shells glissade from willow-branches
& drafty lyres are granaries (seven-tiered

with light). Where fathers yodel in Mendelssohn
& a 5th of Sibelius, in stately waltz, swings low
her catenary iron ribs. Where birchbark rows
into aurora borealis... (harp-wrung Magdalen).

2.7.12