There is a nuthouse where they keep the nabob,
the North Star, the water lily,
and the brilliant negotiator.
Under the portico, there is a set of wind chimes;
in the rectory, a set of keys blessed by St. Gertrude of Nivelles,
and in that place, also, her chair, and comfort for suriphobics.
Patients are cured under a vague influence from the sea,
siren voices thick inside the fog and haze,
which lifts from the rocks and rises to the windows--a swan dive back into life.
The porter is pop-eyed from all he has seen,
and the doctors here are beautiful women,
educated at the opera house by Etruscans in their lovely extinct language.
I can see the skepticism in your hard eyes;
you go, even as we speak,
for the basin and the restraints--
but I'm telling you, it's true.
We live here under each others' mutual protection,
angels in repose, here just to vex you with our exquisite madness,
placed though it is,
and by design,
just beyond your dull, practical, grasping finger tips.