Hobo, with his halting heart, inches toward summer.
Lonely (without his little tree of Jesse
planted in mind) he looks to the peony's
lush purple sphere, in its backyard cloister.
His rusty railroad ties, his crown, askew...
a derelict King Dave, without a Shulamith.
Mumbling his way to happiness – a river-myth
swollen with sighs. When the singer threw
himself from the gilt-woven bridge, into
the stream of Ocean – it was a baptism
in reverse (a divination of the salty womb).
I woke from a St. Louis dream, not long ago :
the Gateway Arch (lanthanum highway-brow).
Hobo would understand. His hungry song
for Helen hale and whole (or Mom) flung
harmonies like peonies from distaff soil. Pow-
wow of primal mundus-mound – cathedral pile –
ultra-calibrated (Finnish) tail-spun steel – O
vain little man (with humming hammer-wheel)
triangulate your clover now – and stay awhile!
The heart's bleak poverty consigns its prairie
prayer. My love will have an answer (O
Anemone) – the fateful rhythm of the river-
flow (an exhalation of the soul's
glory, Hobo). By the gate of mourning,
morning. On the ridge of the plateau
of Providence, where grows the pennyroyal
monarch's mint (square root). A kingly thing.