The humility-in-remorse of that frail old scarecrow-
bard, out there under the deep snow (Resurrection
Cemetery). The lonesome cold on Washington
Bridge that night. Ice-steam climbs from the river
far below. What submerged impulse, what flicker
of light on the riverbottom halted his inhuman
plummet, asked him to turn upstream? Amen,
amen. Who can't be named (just murmur
of water). While Hobo trembles, triangulates
his memories. By the Blackstone River, where
it curves out of sight – white bull, horsehair
pen, a burnt beehive... those frozen figure-eights.
The river of song, like a vast network of copper-
colored, iron-laden tributaries (hidden, overlooked
beneath impenetrable jungle vines). You walked
blind, hypnotized, into that stream – you followed her.
Toward the sound of laughter up ahead you went.
Through dank river-mist, a glimpse of red bridge –
a white horse! Rearing, snorting at its edge –
archaic neck arched almost vertical – rampant.
The dream then crystallizes... fibrillates
like aging hands. A curtain of white snow descends –
its forest manna-blanket's wind-mandala rotates (end
to end). And the dome bends skyward – levitates...
The remorse-in-humility of that ancient frail old man.
His eager child-eye, where hope lingers, irrational
and free (yet rational, someday) – where a madrigal
from a country myrrh-box glances, beckoning (again).