Zero in on crazed bees or your yellow-edged xylophone, as widows & waifs trail behind voodoo dancers. Silver umbrellas open, twirl; then as if on cue, down- spouts of bashing rain. The ensuing blur does quiet the world somehow. Parrots in their cages stop ogling and repeating; but nobody's business still makes the news in little towns. It's why you keep to yourself, yet admire jays and their carefree racket in the bushes. You can't howl in public, can't wear grief's uniform as your only face. Procession, parade: that eerie music haunted and jaunty. Don't tap your toe to that tune. O Calliope, how'd your beautiful voice become this wheezy organ? Once again, around and around we'll go.