I came into these rooms with a mixed mental make-up and a polluted physical chemistry. I have been transformed but only into tiny droplets. The drops are not dramatic but the process is. Distillation of my thinking is a powerful thing. A volatile act of concentration takes place as my brain boils over and the sane is separated from the profane. Purity is a spiritual gift, the result of vaporizing my old thoughts. Many times the night distills the dew and I am quickly refreshed; other times I must cook for quite a while.
Exact a toll for crossed boundaries.
It is safe for the houses to sleep in the streets,
but not for me.
I cannot follow that which is so right and regular
for mundane things.
I am a jagged piece and it is hard for me
to find my place.
The sun comes though everyone’s windows
and peeks around the blinds left down.
I must mind my manners
and not be a nuisance or a bother;
draw no undue attention to my brightness
carry a basket to hide it in.
And while every river can drown its sorrows
in the rush of the downhill sweep to the sea.
I must stand here stock cold sober
and bear the pain appointed to me.