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
mislaid. 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.