16 APRIL 1988, Page 46

Tired Gone Crazy

This flappety head flopdoodles along, Meandering after my feet; Though I know they're all mine, I can't make them connect, Can't walk a straight line in the street.

The words that I speak aren't at all what I think, Misplaced, they fall out in disorder; These pages are shuffled, outsortable-un, My brain has slipped over the border.

At night it hooks on to a minor obsession That picks through the pattern of sleep; By morning my eyes are bagged up into sacks, My skin's folded down in a heap.

Then it's over. I'm into that soft second wind Where the cracks have all gone from the paving, And people in blue at the edge of my sight Are only delphiniums, waving.

Mefo Harland