for Kenneth Koch
Who in this bowling alley bowled the sun?
Who made it when it rises always set
To go at once both down and up?
Who fashioned the curtain rods for this tapestry?
Who hung it there in the first place?
Was it the same hand that milked the great cow
Whose arched back forms the top of the sky
And whose hooves tapdance on the planets?
Who lit the twinkling lanterns that guide the cow home?
Who welcomes her with sweet grass when she arrives?
Who tends the fields where that grass grows?
Who stands amid those fields in a clearing
Where there is an ornamental fountain
And a sundial engraved with an ancient motto
And attempts to parse out all the angles
Of the growing shadows of the day?
Who mops his brow and wonders what
Day it is what week what month and what year?
Who held the mold in which this world of time
Was cast into this particular shape?
Who laid the corner stone? At whose command?
Who did these things? Who was he? Or she?
And why do I keep asking these questions?
Is it because I’m trapped in a universe warped
Out of its intended normality
By some remote unconcerned force? Does anyone
Else know? If so, who? And what can they do?
What is the frequency, Kenneth?