Hobo's ghost (Henry) tracks a negative way.
Don't you be like them, sonny. Of self-
dispersal, man to river-clay. & feels
achy, maybe. O his achy, creaky, drafty
craft! Heads where rivers merge, to plant
a seal (MRG) in the bowl of the bottomland.
Near old St. Louee. Whatever comes to hand
goes to float that thing – rubbish, newsprint...
& he never learns (as Blackstone learns)
how to subtract negative from zero – or
to limn how love's lodestone (the mighty O
in All itself) draws him in four dimensions
(threads). He doesn't need to learn, or speak;
he senses it. That's why he's lying on the river-
bank, dozing (as eddies drift, leaf, quiver)...
(& why he'll never amount to squat, sez Zeke.)
The train-horn hoots again, like Lastest Trumpet
or Henry's yearnful dove, disguised as owl.
To the point that Hobo never will follow
(dim soul) : beyond his own draining sunset.
He feels it, though. He feels. He'll never know.
While Blackstone quarries Maximus to find
his formula's hobo-equation (fair, kind,
true...) – Henry leads them into signet-snow.
Where he pried loose an agate once, one summer.
Earth-brown, to camouflage itself – at home
(a pleasant peasant spider-thread, flesh-
toned with light) – a circular dance-mummer's
gesture. Inimitable, unlikely wave
goodby – from the bridge of aspirations
(wishing bones). From chest, near station
of trained brooder. Hums there. Wave, wave.