I made her crazy. The broken heart
Learns to be crazy as its highest art.
After she talks to strangers who look at her and smile,
She thinks, I’m crazy, why did I say that, he thought I was crazy all the while,
And the stranger who leaves her thinks, she is totally mad,
She’s crazy. She’s crazy. Too crazy to be happy. Too crazy to be sad.
When she’s alone she decides again not to think
Of me, and succumbs to memories, at the desk, at the bureau, at the sink.
She talks to her family and her friends while thinking of me,
And into her dreams I waltz in fateful horror and pornography,
And she sees me—and otherwise cannot see.
It is usually enough to hate and blame me for what went wrong,
But then she imagines a bird in a wood singing a delicate song
And then she sees me approaching with a poem on my tongue
And again she thinks of me, and wishes she were young,
Long before she met me and I smiled and then
She it made it worse and now she thinks of me again.
She wishes she had a spade, a garden with dark soil deep,
And into the earth she crawls, a young girl, who falls asleep,
And when she wakes in the morning, the quiet butterfly
Makes confident noises. And nothing else comes by,
And she escapes, at last, my blue-green eye.
O here comes the madness, oh let it start!
Madness is the only thing which soothes the burning heart,
The heart he heated with his voice and hand,
When the cold blue sea sprinkled the respectable land.