Lanthanum 3.19


All's figures, I figure, augured August, last
of summer's breezy guests. As the phantom
of Hobo's tandem friend, shadow of his random
meandering through primal Providence (Fox Pt.) –

through the Warren-like warren of clapboard
back alleys, and the dapple-sieve of afternoon
sunlight, that slips through Portuguese vine-
trellises, down the backest of ordinary

back streets, the swept-clean simple poverty
of Dove Street (hardly a street at all), where
he dawdled with his flighty Josephine (fair-
dark radiant for circled square – old hoopoe,

he) – lifts his labyrinthine alleyed allegory
(alley-alley-in-free!) toward the unspeakable
unspoken whisper-sense, the wind's own labile
vocable : a sleepy child's soft felt-tip memory

(drawn deep). There, in the mind, like a ruined
concrete cave, it quickens to the unstanched cry
of an old complaint – family quarrel : Bye & Bye,
in the neglected garden; Spy vs. Spy, sustained

by mutual darkness (opportune missed cues
long gone). Across the street, a rose of Sharon
sets its white mandorla in the grass (bloom-rain).
Muttering Hobo's figuring things out. Sez

We cycled through all 50 states, but I ain't seen
nothing like old San Juan for oil & wine – garlic
& jujubees, 2nd-hand bookstores – believe you me

(hic!) as his W wedged in her shadow (pine-green).