Hobo lounges on the bench at Prospect Terrace,
hobo and bench both moldering down toward
moss-veined ruin. He shuffles 57 cards,
a fresco-painter with astigmatism – places
the figures of twelve Kings, Queens, Jacks
against the backdrop of a stable scene
(all memorized). His bench a Levantine
galley or desert ark – his course a parallax
off the western hook of Roger's stone eyebrows
(emergent from that brooding Roman brow
of cliff over Providence). How
halting, tentative his fable grows!
At the brow of reality... some early world...
a graying pidgin-pigeon captain's hobble-wobble
step. Shy self-revolving iteration (mumble-
throat, rain-circlet). A mason's swirling
river-catacomb, cupped in the palm
of his hand. One flowering almond eye
of a loving universe... or loving YHWH
of the Way (mint-savor of a child-kingdom).
It was the will informing Williams, copestone
servant at the crown of Blackstone's emerald hill;
a risky dove-dive toward the incomprehensible
mourning-morn of time itself... Thy will be done.
So that the kid may gallivant again
in her basilica & clover kibbutz, barefoot,
unafraid... the peaceful taproot rise anew
from limestone spring, toward the sun.