Taking leave of one’s senses,
they call it, when someone
is supposedly going crazy.
What they mean, of course,
is common sense, sensibleness.
I know because when I go crazy,
I will still have my sense of taste,
sense of touch, sight, hearing, smell.
Those will be the senses I focus on,
because those are the important
and indeed the enjoyable senses.
Without them I would go crazy.
When I’m on the margin of losing
myself, a dog licks my face,
and I am grounded by texture and push,
rough, eager, soft, strong.
When I’m long gone into my mind,
a bird calls its own name,
and my head swivels to find
the source, and I backtrack
out of the deep dark cave,
where the light may blind
me, but at least I feel warmth.
I’m not crazy. But if I were to lose
my senses, I wouldn’t be mad,
I’d be devastated.