You that pour, ease up. Our minds have moved to the asylum.
The jar’s rim, dark red, the town burning. This comb has no handle, all teeth.
Each candle-moment there is a new moth. Some people, when they hear
how the mind goes crazy in love, close down.
Their hearts contract. There is a confusion in surrender
that the intellect so hates it devises a key made of fire
to destroy the lock, the door, and the whole house.
But love’s madness has gone before, and there is nothing left, no rooms, no door, no lock, just this airy falling asylum of friends
that we call Shams.