So Hobo, the lousy shepherd, wanders onward
through his wintry Bruegel-pantomime. And
Blackstone, the dreamer-wasp, his January
alter-ox – his white bull's eye (from Hvd Yd?)
a moving target for the Lords Ecclesiastical –
both of them seemingly wrong-way-mazed.
Taking the scenic route (a bit crazed
by foot-in-mouth, no doubt – looseliptical)...
but neither here nor there. En route.
Toward an encounter. With the bulliest bully
of them all – bearish half-man, half-animal –
in a funhouse glass, miroir funèbre. C'est tout.
Les jeux sont faits. All face cards up.
The Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Spades...
eh? The little lady's got it made.
In Petersburg we'll sup once more, and tip
the cabby from his sunlit round, my dear
(in the back seat). Persephone stirs
in her ice-locked palace... the sun-disk whirrs...
Hobo-Blackstone's snowy way (somehow) is clear.
If but the Greeks could see... Troy, the arena.
Dancing butterflies, hummingbirds. A blazing
funnel of dust-mote fireflies, grazing
sunset - restless caper to the last crane-
leap (bareback, bare-breasted, bull-defying).
So they rise from slumber, by the tents of
Mamre, Mammy – to gam with an angel (Glint).
By the pool, by the lake. Like a mirror. Flying.