First Carnival

That day is dim as a coin: a tent

sweating earth salt and straw, the windy flight

of one man into the jute-ropey arms

of another, the elephants, pounding

the cramped parameter of a halo

with their Bible feet. Two clowns with stoplight

noses take the stage. One is wailing, one

is laughing but the water springs from both

their noses, enough to fill ten buckets

and the fat man’s tub. Why are you crying,

one clown sobs to the other, Why are you?

They stare. They wring their noses like the knobs

of locked drawers, and this is the funny thing

about grief: those drawers are always locked.