Old ash tree in a world of ash, my mast,
you plant a smudge-seed (like a third eye)
on the brow of Guillem Blackstone, aye. The
President of Vice abides – but sniffs his last
ahead. He'll melt like an ancient wicked witch
when springtime comes, for good. It is
foretold. Meanwhile, the world roils in its
man-made dust. Oppression, violence, rich
against the poor. Guillem huddles by his candle-
tree, his crystal ball (of melted snow and tears);
hears eager cheeping of the early birds, their
hopeful tidings – welcome, garden-year! Handle
With Care. St. Francis feeds them in his ecstasy.
No form, no comeliness, no tailored suit, no one
desires him, notices at all. A trilling monotone
under his breath, an oddball humming (Abba-sigh).
And Hobo? Hungover Hobo makes a collage
from dumpster scraps, presses dirt to his brow
to forestall the rain. Somewhere, aloft now,
tender, elliptical lips shape a mirror-mirage –
ship like a dome, like a green-eyed almond, afloat.
As if the crown of a scraggly hillside tree
were a glass trained on Sirius, magnifying
the sun. In the form of a man. See? (Mote
in your eye. Beam.) Meanwhile good Guillem
and goodly Will cross paths, over and over –
crosshatch a kindly kingdom (freedom's rovers).
Their world is yours – a providential garden. (Hmm)...