Fugue State
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There are so many
beautiful things
in this world,
and that, perhaps,
is why I stay,
why I don't take my body
and float away
in search of a less complicated
place, a happier, more peaceful
land. In all the complexity
and conflict
is a gripping beauty.

I must get you,
I fear, when you
are in a sort
of a fugue state,
for only then
will I convince you
to watch as the birdsongs
begin at six in the morning,
to smell the sun
as it rises gently,
to hear the fresh
dew that soaks
through your sneakers,
and skin
instead of drowning it
all out
with the harsh,
artificial awareness
of your morning coffee.

If, one day,
you walk into our room
and find me crazed,
trying hopelessly to explain
to you
how I am the pen,
or paper,
or perhaps it is
the letters of ink
that I identify myself with,
I am,
I am,
I am;
after you check me
into the nut house,
after you
so considerately
see me settled
into my new room,
after you
are comfortable
leaving me with the nurses—
you assure yourself
you're assuring yourself
you can trust them,
although deep down
you already did,
because this is their job—
after all that,
take this me,
the old me
out to lunch
and tell me the story.
It would make me smile,
but I probably won't laugh:
I won't be the least surprised.
Because while I sit here with you,
riding in the car,
leaning against the window
and looking out—
I tell you
I'm a little carsick
and don't really
want to talk—
my mind is dancing rings
around our tiny auto
leagues wide;
I am here
and so very far
away there,
what you've defined
as a fugue state,
waiting for my sanity
to catch up
with my mind.

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