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“What’s the French for fiddle-de-dee?” “Fiddle-de-dee’s not English,” Alice replied gravely. “Whoever said it was,” said the Red queen ... What’s the French for “fiddle-de-dee”? But “fiddle-de-dee’s not English” (we Learn from Alice, and must agree). The “Fiddle” we know, but what’s from “Dee”? Le chat assis in an English tree? —Well, what’s the French for “fiddle-de-dench”? (That is to say, for “monkey wrench”) —Once in the works, it produced a stench What’s the Greek for “fiddle-de-dex”? (That is to say, for “Brekekekex”) —The frog-prince turned out to be great at sex. What’s the Erse for “fiddle-de-derse”? (That is to say, for “violent curse”?) —Bad cess to you for your English verse! What’s the Malay for “fiddle-de-day”? (That is to say, for “That is to say ...”) —...[There are no true synonyms, anyway ...] What’s the Pali for “fiddle-de-dally”? (That is to say, for “Silicon Valley”) —Maya deceives you: the Nasdaq won’t rally. What’s the Norwegian for “fiddle-de-degian”? (That is to say, for “His name is Legion”) —This aquavit’s known in every region. What’s the Punjabi for “fiddle-de-dabi”? (That is to say, for “crucifer lobby”) —They asked for dall but were sent kohl-rabi. What’s the Dutch for “fiddle-de-Dutch”? (That is to say, for “overmuch”) —Pea-soup and burghers and tulips and such. What’s the Farsi for “fiddle-de-darsi?” (That is to say for “devote yourself”—“darsi” In Italian—the Irish would spell it “D’Arcy”) Well, what’s the Italian for “fiddle-de-dallion”? (That is to say, for “spotted stallion”) —It makes him more randy to munch on a scallion. Having made so free with “fiddle-de-dee,” What’s to become now of “fiddle-de-dum”? —I think I know. But the word’s still mum.

Now you take ol Rufus. He beat drums, was free and funky under the arms, fucked white girls, jumped off a bridge (and thought nothing of the sacrilege), he copped out—and he was over twenty-one. Take Gerald. Sixteen years hadn’t even done a good job on his voice. He didn’t even know how to talk tough, or how to hide the glow of life before he was thrown in as “pigmeat” for the buzzards to eat. Gerald, who had no memory or hope of copper hot lips— or firm upthrusting thighs to reinforce his flow, let tall walls and buzzards change the course of his river from south to north. (No safety in numbers, like back on the block: two’s aplenty. three? definitely not. four? “you’re all muslims.” five? “you were planning a race riot.” plus, Gerald could never quite win with his precise speech and innocent grin the trust and fists of the young black cats.) Gerald, sun-kissed ten thousand times on the nose and cheeks, didn’t stand a chance, didn’t even know that the loss of his balls had been plotted years in advance by wiser and bigger buzzards than those who now hover above his track and at night light upon his back.

True, my office is a gold Camino nineteen eighty-two & front-work’s on a laptop, but there are older tricks: this knack I have to spy a sham address: figures pried off siding or the silhouette that’s left when eight is changed to three; my talent to discern the perp who hides behind the car or ducks among the bins or sidles, slams the screen & tries for silence then behind his gutted door. Some will wave a gun or summon dogs. Once a rooster. Once an alderman who menaced with a mallet (croquet) when his trucking company was sued & there’s still this lucent bruise on my right heel— long story: swan shot, tree house, veteran. Though no one wants this dachshund’s weight of paper compiled by some paralegal underpaid in Phoenix, I assure you I will always serve. I am the envoy (a ball cap hides my third eye). Put me in swift shoes or wings, at some cosmic door with only sky behind— black-clad, the Prophet of Xerox, steadfast bearer of a clerk court’s smeared truncated seal. I know these streets: the houses boarded up, the other heralds driving slow on fractured blacktop; the sidewalks’ glass & fenders scattered; vacant quarter acres returning now to palm & pampas, trees of heaven. I am waiting at the crossroads, here at your broken gate where barbed acacias stoop to shade my trespass.

When the lights come on at five o'clock on street corners That is Evolution by the bureau of power, That is a fine mechanic dealing in futures: For the sky is wide and warm upon that hour.

"The trees are mended." A shy man seeks perfection in his art: Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness, Iowa's unruly grass submits, blade by blade. The blue of Mother's dishes tints the sky. Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness, sloping rows and rectangles piece a new land. The blue of Mother's dishes tints the sky. Like a black quilt tied with loops of green, sloping rows and rectangles piece the new land. The reassuring fields of corn unfold like black quilts tied with loops of green. Under the artist's alchemy, the reassuring fields of corn unfold. Sweet clouds hover like the hands of God. Under the artist's alchemy, even winter's leaden skies grow bright. Sweet clouds hover like the hands of God as the Thirties' skylines and bread lines disappear. Even winter's leaden skies grow bright. A yellow hill rises, like the belly of a woman ripe with child, as the skylines and bread lines disappear. Iowa's unruly grass submits, blade by blade, a yellow hill rises— and the shy man finds perfection in his art.

The streets are my body or rather the wish of the skin to put on the grass in a gold rain not vice-versa, the lips twisting to allow the tongue to play in the broken mirror on the floor Catches an arm a distance the light at the ceiling This kills the lift begged of a magical hand I have walked a long way traced in these pieces an arm a crotch     The queen of faerie guarded by blue-winged griffins Untouched by

For it was the first day of Rosh Ha'shanah, New Year's Day, day of remembrance, of ancient sacrifices and averted calamities. For I started the day by eating an apple dipped in honey, as ritual required. For I went to the local synagogue to listen to the ram's horn blown. For I asked Our Father, Our King, to save us for his sake if not for ours, for the sake of his abundant mercies, for the sake of his right hand, for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of his name. For despite the use of a microphone and other gross violations of ceremony, I gave myself up gladly to the synagogue's sensual insatiable vast womb. For what right have I to feel offended? For I communed with my dead father, and a conspicuous tear rolled down my right cheek, and there was loud crying inside me. For I understood how that tear could become an orb. For the Hebrew melodies comforted me. For I lost my voice. For I met a friend who asked "is this a day of high seriousness" and when I said yes he said "it has taken your voice away." For he was right, for I felt the strong lashes of the wind lashing me by the throat. For I thought there shall come a day that the watchmen upon the hills of Ephraim shall cry, Arise and let us go up to Zion unto the Lord our God. For the virgin shall rejoice in the dance, and the young and old in each other's arms, and their soul shall be as a watered garden, and neither shall they learn war any more. For God shall lower the price of bread and corn and wine and oil, he shall let our cry come up to him. For it is customary on the first day of Rosh Ha'shanah to cast a stone into the depths of the sea, to weep and pray to weep no more. For the stone represents all the sins of the people. For I asked you and Molly to accompany me to Cascadilla Creek, there being no ocean nearby. For we talked about the Psalms of David along the way, and the story of Hannah, mother of Samuel, who sought the most robust bard to remedy her barrenness. For Isaac said "I see the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?" For as soon as I saw the stone, white flat oblong and heavy, I knew that it had summoned me. For I heard the voice locked inside that stone, for I pictured a dry wilderness in which, with a wave of my staff, I could command sweet waters to flow forth from that stone. For I cast the stone into the stream and watched it sink to the bottom where dozens of smaller stones, all of them black, gathered around it. For the waterfall performed the function of the chorus. For after the moment of solemnity dissolved, you playfully tossed Molly into the stream. For you tossed her three times, and three times she swam back for her life. For she shook the water off her body, refreshed. For you removed the leash from her neck and let her roam freely. For she darted off into the brush and speared a small gray moving thing in the neck. For this was the work of an instant. For we looked and behold! the small gray thing was a rat. For Molly had killed the rat with a single efficient bite, in conformance with Jewish law. For I took the rat and cast him into the stream, and both of us congratulated Molly. For now she resumed her noble gait. For she does not lie awake in the dark and weep for her sins, and whine about her condition, and discuss her duty to God. For I'd as lief pray with your dog Molly as with any man. For she knows that God is her savior.

A boy came up the street and there was a girl. "Hello," they said in passing, then didn’t pass. They began to imagine. They imagined all night and woke imagining what the other imagined. Later they woke with no need to imagine. They were together. They kept waking together. Once they woke a daughter who got up and went looking for something without looking back. But they had one another. Then one of them died. It makes no difference which. Either. The other tried to imagine dying, and couldn’t really, but died later, maybe to find out, though probably not. Not everything that happens is a learning experience. Maybe nothing is.

I know that rarity precedes extinction, Like that of the purple orchid in my garden, Whose sudden disappearance rattled me. Jane, in her way, is also beautiful. And therefore near extinction, I suppose. She is certainly rare and fragile of  bone. She insists she is dying, day by dubious day, And spends her evenings looking at photographs Of  her mother, who never believed in love. Rare Jane, I worship you. But I can’t deny You access to the endless With its river of cold stars.

They’re tipping their battered derbies and striding forward In step for a change, chipper, self-assured, Their cardboard suitcases labeled Guest of Steerage. They’ve just arrived at the boot camp Of the good old French Foreign Legion Which they’ve chosen as their slice of life Instead of drowning themselves. Once again They’re about to become their own mothers and fathers And their own unknowable children Who will rehearse sad laughter and mock tears, Will frown with completely unsuccessful Concentration, and will practice the amazement Of suddenly understanding everything That baffles them and will go on baffling them While they pretend they’re only one reel away From belonging in the world. Their arrival Will mark a new beginning of meaningless Hostilities with a slaphappy ending. In a moment, They’ll hear music, and as if they’d known all along This was what they’d come for, they’ll put down The mops and buckets given them as charms With which to cleanse the Sahara and move their feet With a calm, sure, delicate disregard For all close-order drill and begin dancing.