Sanity has peninsulas
which reach out into madness.
This is where poets go
to stand on the breakwaters
surprised to find
the fingers of turbulent water
are warmer than one might think.
They like the way the wind plays
with their scarf, their hair, their mind.
Grocery lists, doctor's appointments,
are blown out to sea. They like
those tiny voices coming from shore
snapping like bright flags.
Crawling crab-like along the rocks
they come back to the mainland
where the footing is secure.
Safe at home, they read each other's poems
like travelogues to distant places
turn, one after another,
the white tickets of the page.
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