there was no fiddle, but let’s say there was.
fingers cutting strings heart bow skipping
feet dancing on the hill watching the city
the kingdom ashes coating his smiling teeth.
there was no fiddle, not invented yet,
but we place it in his hand, move his feet
on the mountain. he may have been out of town,
historians say, but we paint him joyful anyway.
there was no fiddle. the fiddle stands for the rush
from the ruin of his people. paint God as Nero,
as a kid with magnifying glass, ants. placing two
crabs in one tin bucket, salting the garden slugs.
there was no fiddle but there was fixation,
there was perish, there was composition
of destruction. Was it the Ark? Gomorrah?
that first hit so good, so sweet we just know
He’s gotta do it again.
