The Tower Journal, Spring/Summer 2014
He doesn’t think he’s God. Such
Mercy as is given, small
And hard, splinters against much
More. He is genius and gestures, all
Bundled in a cracked view
Of the world. He doesn’t think
He’s Einstein, though he’ll argue
Dark to daybreak in unblinking
Zeal that the notes are
His. Equations dance, he
Says, dip and twirl in jarring
Swoops, drunken swallows, each
Bird a sign, each sign a bird.
For me, delusion is a welcome word.