They painted,
then leapt into books.
They wrote,
and felt themselves unseen,
or, confused, found
too many eyes were on them.
It was all the same
as they packed their carpet-bags
from country town to city,
drawn to the flood of lights
like fireflies, while others
crossed highways, headed north
for freedom & an acre.
It was that simple,
and if the land left them
unfinished, taken in, misguided,
then winter surely finished them
with snowflakes, quickly
undid who they were, anraveled them
like so much useless clothing,
masking their footprints.
They packed up again,
moved into their mercury fishtanks
and were happy there, invisible,
glad to be forgotten.
          Going mad is a warm thing. I saw
my grandmother go through it, move
to the farthest edge, but never
quite able to jump. There is no
indication, no markers on those cerebral
highways, just a dull itch somewhere
underneath the skull, one that can never
be scratched. No wild eyes or hysterics,
just a long stare in an unstable chair
over there.