The ides of March. First crocuses appear
in Caesar's royal purple, with a red-gold cap.
Julius returning from the grave, as Corporal
Bloom – the ruler of this world dispersed,
spread wide in little javelins of green.
Hobo, too, would be scattered into seedy
vacancy. His mind withdrawn, gone
weedy, scarce... a sleepy wind-sown
has-been. Here involuted flowers grow
beneath a milky, mist-ringed moon
and the silver-gray of his turpentine pining
brushes across a curving spray-wrought prow
near Meganom. Longing is the royal seal
(his father's seal) of Providence. How long,
how long? The timbre of his hobo-song, gone
stealing (toward his own far 57th parallel).
He'll find his friend there, in the netherworld
by the tree of bird-souls, with Persephone
– the one who balanced heavy gravity and
tender grace (orbiting twin roses, whorled
into one). And that Blackstone-Maximus
who celebrates with plumbline and with rule
an equilibrium of Man and God (beneath calm
wings of a grey dove, hovering in suspense
over the dome of human and divine wisdom).
An amassing confluence of silver trumpets
spreads like opening sunlit clouds... so Hobo's
impetuous dream unfolds. His wayward freedom.