The subway poems: Sulphur Moon

Sulphur Moon

I can tell that you're not crazy
when you howl at the sulphur moon,
and your wily eyes go dancing around
the fleshy room.

I can tell you're not crazy
in the way you pour the tea,
and wrestle with the silent words
of the poet, painter, prophet, he.

I can tell that you're not crazy
when you tap the glowing day
extinguishing ambition in a silver
ash tray.

And no, no, no, you're not what
the psychologist said: out of your head,
because its only when you're drowning
in this empty bed, that you can see the
shimmering sea, and even when you're stammering,
do I know how you long to be free.

The Number 93 Bus, Islington. London 1989