If green is the hue of uneasiness,
how supremely half-cocked is his joy.
He bows toward the nebulous light.
If it rains, blessed is he who can bless.
If it clears, he'll pull onions from the dirt.
Wind blows through the sockets of his eyes.
Other arms reach out for the man in the sky
while the fiddler keens to his tune.
[One image is superimposed on another.
Before the war/ After the war
never enough to eat.]
How dreadful to be a joy-bringer;
Heaven's stones are his blood bema
thick with interstitial channels of moss.
His shoes don't match. Call him Harlequin.
But his heart beneath the wet plum coat
is his heart.
In the square, it is always half past five,
and the village sits waiting to be fed.
Once, he could have eaten bricks,
have fractured his jaw,
fed three fingers to the wild dogs.
Broken meats, braided bread.
Some assumptions are forced on one
who cannot boldly
parachute from history.
Three suits of black.
Behind the kitchen door,
beef grizzles in the iron pot.
No one knew how a bone pile grew.