Lanthanum 1.21


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,
. 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).