Within the realm of Sanity
things are catalogued and even, lined up in orderly rows.
Strolling in the garden, the immaculate flowers are prim and proper,
presenting perfectly round handkerchiefs
on rail-straight arms without thorns.
It only rains on Tuesday nights,
and the orderly days are invariably sunny—
but Sanity can be tiresome,
and when the perfume of roses begins to sicken me
I flee to the realm just outside Sanity, just inside Bedlam.
There, it’s sunny any night it decides to be
and snail-shells can come pouring down from a clear green sky.
The garden paths twist back on themselves, leading to nowhere alcoves
where carpets of ferns play over rough-hewn triangular rocks.
Square-rooted trees with zigzag crooked branches
lift fine-cut leaves to the growing light.
Here, on the fringes of imagination, I can quiet my yearning spirit.