TOO SANE

shall i attempt to describe
what over-pilled and hanging writers
already
written? - the filths black animal blanket
that
grips
your
reason
away?


no - i shall describe tuesday when time was still on dry gears,
when
my voice shrank small as a mouse's,
when, 
too sane, all faces were intricately lined by artists,
when
i touched the slow lumbering large things all around me
never
more conscious of being on the surface of a populated planet,
and i, too sane,
clearly knew and felt the earths solid girth and soil heft under my feet,
all
sky's painted in hollywood watercolours.


i
was saved on the edge of Craylands by
a
concise
slice
of christmas with singing and chestnuts hiding treats in
the
brussels.