He walks, then, through the melting, scruffy streets.
He keeps on walking, though his heart's far off.
Through concentric rings of high-piled white stuff –
Himalayas of congealed hexagons gone slate-
gray with sleet and grime. Hobo's melted often,
too. His heart a mysterious oasis, green
and hidden – holding tight to his forsaken
one. Too tight. He moans in pain
at her betrayal, flight. All in vain,
his conscience whispers back. Her phantom
face smiles through that murmuring – that hum
her own voice, now... Let me explain then,
foolish man, if explain I must. You fell in love.
You fell in love as sparrows fall from trees
toward grass seed scattered on the ground. See :
it wasn't me. It was my face, my form, deep-wove
with your desire. There in the labyrinth
of Providence, paths crossed, fates intertwined.
But you must learn, through suffering, to find
the generous root from which this amaranth
rose tall, and bloomed – rose planted in the sky.
The lovesick vagabond stops in his tracks.
Stands in the slushy street, his head flung back.
Somewhere above his balding dome, his inward eye
can see another dome, far off – its blue and gold
glinting behind concentric rings of time and space.
Behold the goal of planetary grace (he hears
her whisper then, somewhere). Cloud-flocks unfold.