Lanthanum 2.19


Whatever it is that sustains this constant stream
of Blackstone River into Narragansett Bay,
it must be near, and hidden, and silver-grey,

muttered Hobo to himself. Some dove-trireme,

some Argo-baton, with whirring, rowing wings
And the river flowed between steep limestone banks
golden by day and ghostly-gray by night (thanks
to triangulating light-rays, sped through rings

of floating cloud-armadas); rippled around
the spiny ridge of Providence, below
that six-sided, gold-acorned, yet sweetly-
modest Temple Emanu-el (trombone profound)

lit to bright chrome by every morning ray.
Must be a kind of invisible milk, a Milky Way,
the old collapsed Franciscan murmured; say,
God's breast – we're nursing it secretly all day

(White Russians, maybe)... so he hobbled a-hum
down hardscrabble streets, by the piloting palm
of rugged Roger, at his fo'c'sle. In the sky-realm
overhead, angelic Maximus, of old Byzantium,

aboard an emerald Argo, gazed upon Hobo
like an icon carved in silver-blue mosaic –
with beams of kindliness. For this one's sake
the King of kings indeed made himself Hobo

of hobos
, he declared. And Hobo, glancing up
saw two rose-emerald islands, almond-shaped,
meld in one catamaran : each held the other
cupped in clouds, swaying – like a gyroscope...