Lanthanum 3.17


Beneath tropic downpours of waterlogged July
Hobo, like an ancient landbound sailor-man,
reviews the silver sounding of his evening
tattoos, their curious curlicues. Why

thread them again with sticky stitches, guy?
Those spiracles and smudgy syrinxes,
those sphinxes in pre-war Cyrillic (Brink's
truckloads-full of Scythian bird's-eyes,

golden marzipan out of Byzantium, out of
an old green sea-chest)? His reveries
of broken marriages, unbroken memories
tug one painful, imperious thread into Sunset

Cove (near Elbow Beach, along the southern arm
of Blind Man's Reach), and Ariadne's absence
from pinched pound-foolish Theseus's dense
Rhode Island Phd. sets off an ouragan-alarm

across the tendril-web of Hobo's outré Outre-Mer
something in those future tension-wires, old guy?
Somebody coming home? His melancholy
black sails fluff the pillowy horizon of her hair

and Abba, Abba, he cries out, groinward,
in a sheepish, neverending sleep (lotus-
position – fetal-fatal always). Leda's
ducklings never looked so lubber-awkward

as that tapped-out three-toed stool pigeon,
awash in imaginary Sheba-rain. Her questions
were too difficult – her clues too cozy-cozening
for this lax bos'n (alas, alack). Labyrinthine.