Madman

In his laughter, like wind

rushing through leaves,

is there an edge of pink or rose:

a blossom come to spring,

a stream of rain

on winter's pane of ice?

Can it be cold?--

the dark between two stars,

water's torrent down smooth stone?

Or is it a fire flaming out of brass

to dance in shadow on the wall?

His laughter,

like wind a ribbon in his hands,

how has it turned

that you must find his face

and seek a twisting there?