Lanthanum 1.18


Hobo turns again toward the light-filled pane,
a shadowy blurred ice-blaze through the frost-
glaze (blinding his gaze). A haze-mirage of lost
love – sidetracked, deflected by a railroad line.

Remembers the flock of brilliant birches on the ridge,
in the snow, at Swan Point. Like the white hair
of her mother, buried there (so long ago –
his father's birthday). One rime-white image,

remote now – all that remains. Under the snow,
the limestone – under the limestone, only a secret
(wayward, vagabond life). A single tearlet
wells from the rim of Hobo's eye. Tomorrow

was your birthday
, he mumbles to himself...
Somehow the wires were crossed, the tracks
. Natural joy we should have known
is gone
. Far away. Nothing came out right.

And so he folds his sighs into a rivulet,
and sends his whole life down the drain (gin-
soaked). Absolute, disconsolate. And then...
something in the empty lightness of the light –

his own lightheadedness – something comes
over him. Memory furled in tired memory –
thought within thought – a murmuring.
Love's rippling quiddity, autonomous.

What might have been is what will be, someday.
He hears her own voice, whispering – to him.
Like air through the white birches – to him,
to him. Only a dream. Only a dark ray.