Letter to Tom P.

I had no idea
where the path through you
would go when I first met you,
all blond on blond
with wispy bits of unruly gold
all around you.

I thought bright haired people
always avoid the cold.
In spite of the rags and bits of paper,
you looked redeemed.

When you told me about the dark,
the fever, the rage, the land of nothing,
and you sung your angry, pent-up songs,
I declared how strong you are
to avoid madness or live at the edge
of madness without slipping over.

You are bound in safety
because of the asbestos qualities of art.