Madness is a lack of mooring,
And one side of a coin. There’s a store in
An old dry town up north, where sanity sells
Like cheap television. And the bell
In the rundown church upwind still booms
With songs of concentrated earth, swoons
And submerges planes of reason
Beneath the doomy silent sea it leaves in
Its wake. It sings Wake Up: for tintinnabulation
Is a pretty word for neatly folded situations,
But this sound goes beyond slick dances
On polished surfaces—it’s the messy branches
Of real-world meaning woven together
Like the cracks in limestone beneath the heather,
The old bones that it hides.
The flipside of the coin isn’t soundness, which is just loud
But wisdom, which is madness with its silver head bowed,
Willing to ride
On the side
Of the waterfall carrying its ghost-ship.
Silence is a graceful place to skinny-dip,
And weathered admirals don’t lose sleep
Looking for the place to moor their fleet.
The stowaway sage opens his eyes wide,
dips his toes in the water, and enjoys the ride.