Lanthanum Road 4.6


O, & that train-horn's plangent testament…
a yawning in the basement of its chord.
Suspended between iron tracks – echoed
by time, space, homesickness. O, Henry's

foolish fundament. Concave to complex...
the womb of fading notes, where we played
hide-&-seek (you, me, brother Bluejay –
a winsome foursome). Into the dome's ex-

doom (only air & light, afloat
on high). & it's not the beautiful Madonna
with chambered sea-blue glance of tesserae,
nor the blunt cruelties of Will-to-Dominate

there... only the geometry of yearning
(Ariadne). Only turn the rosewood handle
90 degrees – until the humiliated sundial-
pinetree lifts to the pole star (ice, burning).

So a bent polarity's natural desire for beauty
leans toward recognition. Supernatural charity –
the childhood of the soul in God – a hobo liberty
bestowed in 2nd berth (long whistle-wail)... O my

Siberious hilaritas, Yurodivy! This your
early birch-tree cry – a sap with honey!
This our business – O, Eternity! Eternity!
Whose pigeon sails past Bosphorus, Marmara...

These implications of Great Northern routes –
when the tree & the forest, the frost
& its each miniature fir-whorl, herringbone &
firmly cleave. Toward one vermilion threadlight.


Lanthanum Road 4.5


Abstract, abstracted Henry ambles west
across a limestone-lit & pastel Providence.
Steep ridges, baby rivers. Confluence
of morning stone & wooden birdnest

paradise. Past Burnside Park, with marble
General. & graybeard homeless private
shaking out his shoes (still alive, yet).
RW from below – his steep immobile

terrace of Inca-set granite (Isaac Hale's
deed – filigreed now in hungry graffiti).
Where his ashes lie – burnt from the tree-
root man-shape swelling his coffin (awhile

back then). To moss-gray, helmet-headed
City Hall (where angular Roger-face peeks
from its crown) he goes, to pay late taxes...
ambles east again. Earth trek she threaded,

once – absent, absented one. Just one,
just once. & Henry felt the L-bow of an arm
hooked into his own, laced, latched. To form
a knot with lurching outline, barely shaded-in –

irregular, in disequilibrium. Systole, diastole...
sys... black stone on white stone – breathing
lips & windy guest. So her road-dislocating
presence lessoned less & less. Yet twas whole

Somewho - beyond departure. In the realm
of the matrix of subtle analogies of light (rays
hula-hoop through rainbow-eyelet). How they
recast your one & lonely profile, Yo-Yo? Hmm?


Lanthanum Road 4.4


That Finnish carpenter, arch arc-welder, will he
ever be finished? & will some beehive grow
out of this footling litterbox, Henry's heave-ho
abbatoir – his slow spiel, his scribbly spelling-bee?

His lean-to stand-ins gather round, his fogged-in
foretop shrouding a flighty figurehead (always
one step ahead). Forthright RW, wise
William B.... wistful Hobo lingering astern.

Blackstone lifts a glass toward Byzantium.
He wants a rose window to shade his apple-
tree – layers of honeyed, leaded light (triple-
dense, Einstein-slow) – a palimpsest. Viridium-

lanthanum-oxide (caffeinated blend). Something
St. Louis might underwrite (if Queen B. signs on).
A lofted boomerang (earthbound, into the sun)
– high-wired for mobile stable (free-floating).

& there, from beyond the effaced curvature
of sea-wave domes, from that poisoned bowl
of empurpled shade – a microscopic smile,
bent by parallactic ray into toadstool square

(dour prophet-frown, immured in martyr-salt).
The angle of his rippling white beard, acute
as his one remaining eye – his humming note
(in surprising major key) only : what Walt

intuited – Whitman
. How the miracle of many-
in-one (e pluribus unum) – its kindly singleness –
disintegrated, disinterred again – arose to bless,
in person, every one. Rose, once – arose, Henry!


Lanthanum Road 4.3


With a rock in her sling, Pocahontas reels
around... is it studious Blackstone, shrouded
in his papery coccoon, his womb-cloud,
raining? And she, the root of all he feels,

the knotty stump, the remnant scrawled all
over with riddles... hoary grandmother of
once-wispy willow? Minor mirroring, by river?
Henry plucks the cat-string of his gutteral

personae (unappeased, rambunctious
Mousketeers). Adieu-longing (that stems
from, ends among ice-locked limestone,
russet railroad bridges) shades his soliloquies,

bends his yew longbow (odd oud). Meanwhile
mind-power of Maximus, in Byzantium
(the other Maximus) cradles the frame
of gopherwood, where Black Sea water riles

around Pontus-point; finds scarlet Rahab-
thread, that can untie, make plain, defend
the knot of human and divine enfoldment
(sans d├ęsordre) – what riddle more subtle,

troubling? His spirit lingers near that fortress
at the other end of the remorseless depths
where Theseus manarvels fleece (the labyrinth
will reel him back from Ariadne's wilder nest) –

asking again : who reigns in the almond eye?
The mirrored sun plays like a wistful child
in the rocking sea that girdles triste Istanbul.
A land-bound willow wavers between river, sky.


Lanthanum Road 4.2


The crossweave in the melancholy train-chord,
plangent, distant. Not unison yet, but the one
and the other, making harmony. The oval
red and green leaves of a shuttering dogwood –

one color with the other, calmly aglow now
beneath gray clouds. The curious heart-
signals sleepy Henry tries to interpret –
sign-language, leaf-muttering, slow

autumn breeze... the one and the other –
old question-and-answer, call-and-response...
Martha and Mary, Williams and Blackstone,
listening, doing. Knot of the dreamer

by rose-flecked seashore. Twine of Black Sea
binding Maximus, his hardy, rooted taking-stock
before the Mother of Good Maiden Voyages
(almond prow on New World promontory

– strife-torn turf). The total vision
a triangulation – compass, rudder, mast
afloat upon a void of whispered trust –
still star above wind-wagon ballast (son

and mother and their Magdalen-logos).
The old design whispers to Henry, he gets
the drift of dogwood leaves. His Hobo waits
in river-sand, by a railway bridge, a drifter's

flute-call smoking from his lips. A tuning-
fork in the middle of the country surges
its upward wing; anonymous Pocahontas
reels around, with a rock in her sling.


Lanthanum Road 4.1


Late summer evening, pensive September light.
Persistent mute suspended minor seventh
of distant railroad horn. Amaranth,
. The pussy willow (plucked, worn out).

Autumn is a labyrinth of earthy dreams.
Of prairie earth, grown vaster than the sea.
& Henry huddles with his traveling three –
Hobo, Roger, William B. – where the beams

of his wind-wagon meet the mast (pining).
In the cradle of his longing, the log cabin
of his ghost brought low. Some Sinbad
marathon, spun by Scheherazade (declining

favors – still, persuasive). Here, a ruddy
Irish monarch – there, an Armenian butterfly.
The tale spins by itself, unstoppable top. Why?
It's gravity, at the edge of the bloody

corner, mate. Checkmate. Crossroads.
Where husk of Siberian cicada meets
the tracks, & Theseus blunders blind toward
Chartres... where Berryman hears Beethoven-chords.

Track 132. The jittery greenhouse overhead
like a turtle-sell, translucent... where are we?
Petersburg? Coutances? Minneapolis? Saint
Louee? We're near the Queen of the dead

, the phantom said. Henry's Dove
(Chicago watercolor – gray, with loops).
The bird purrs in the railroad trumpet – whoops
'at's the spirit. & this was only Ariadne's Cove.