Cloud and sun, an April wind. Limestone
lanthanum-radiance – shy, secretive, behind
slow-roving grey. He marks his rubicund
Rose Island diary (weather's wayward
son). Lanthanum, somewhere (polished
to a mirror-bend) signals a glint of raven-
shadowed jay, or plummeting halcyon – or
eagle in a child's great gouache...? Might be.
Might be your ever-present absent friend,
Hobo – one flicker of a dark eyelash.
Plunging to earth and silence (wash of
wave – those heart-burst tears – land's end).
Where the light-road leads, one April morning.
There are these women, who accompany the bier
of Lazarus, with limping step... near, near.
You their song's burden, Hobo (mourning's air).
A lone dove in the pussy-willow paces
my tootling, marking slow time. My mother's
gray hair, gone all white. Lanthanum's where
the final flame burns clear – it simplifies
the simple word (more than enough for me,
that dove intones). Toward the old limestone
shaping her steadfast stream, onward and on.
Toward the milky eye (a-brim, spontaneously)
that seems to penetrate all things – beginning
with the bees' domain (yon honeyed hexagon
hung from an almond limb). Hobo's dear one,
inhabiting his song. Their light-flung road.