Sunday in Providence, blue sky
and rain. Thunder. Sunlight refracted
through shifting gray. The dogwood's deflected
petals are scattered notes, leaf-glossolalia
unglued from the spine of a broken horse, or
windblown from an open walnut chest... Blackstone's
lost epistle, whistled down the lee – mere bones
of some departed breath (alluvial, leftover).
Someone shuffles through the dregs of memories,
Memorial Day. Not Blackstone exactly, not Hobo –
their shadow, secretarial – amanuensis, echo.
Ghost of a breeze, ruffling the dogwood screed.
Leaves lean against each other, fold on fold,
fumbling to compost, finally. So these thick tomes
of parallactic palimpsest – loom into loam-
kingdom (castles of one lake-love, long retold).
So Hobo's longing to disperse like rain in wheat
meets Blackstone's willing solitude, his Lenten eye;
and in mute lack-love (cantering mutually)
they frame a lean-to for vast vanishment.
As if the longing for unbroken mother-love
and memory of freedom's fatherhood
met in one transient's dogwood record-
log – an old rose raftered in a pine alcove.
As if their memoir (mounded with the Indian)
reached back through every lattice of held
pain – a metamorphosis, instilled
now, molten, universal. Monarch's van.