some people never go mad.
I, sometimes, lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
that’s where they’ll find me.
it’s Cherubin, they’ll say,
and they’ll pour wine straight down my throat,
rub my chest,
sprinkle me with oil.
then I’ll rise with a roar —
a declamation, a fury —
I’ll curse them and the universe,
send them scattering across
the meadow.
I feel quite fine,
sit down to toasted bread and eggs,
hum a tune,
suddenly gentle as a
pink,
sated
whale.
some people never go mad —
what a truly miserable life
they must lead.
