PROBE I used to clone her in balsa wood with eyeball beads and willow leaf blades. I used to whiplash her behind my poll and cast her out to the jaws of the water. We met in a cabbage garden above the dancing midge, with puzzled heads like dozy secrets on slender stalks. Ever wrapping heads in the rustle of my dawn. She draws Euclid lines in golds and darks and purple hues, the devil’s wings in torpedo blues. The midge echoes all that jazz and swings around the cabbage head a Hustle and the Running Man. Two fingers rise in a slug’s slow crawl, fingers in a rubber glove inside my head. A woman is peeling back the cabbage leaves searching for the slime trails, peeling back the cabbage leaves in the garden of the dragonfly.