innumerable revolutions around the
plate it made, a porous blue moon
washing the porcelain sky clean
(her sore palm slipped on the ruffled edge)
no, not a sky. a dish.
she told herself firmly, thumbs
harsh and red against falling water.
but she still cried out when her sore palm slipped
and the tiny planet splintered into powder.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
– Czeslaw Milosz