The Mind Is Its Own Place

Ann Townsend

Mated and unmated, 

 starlings swarm the willow 

 with their devotions 

until the tree roils 

 and sways, wing-beats 

 sounding the torrent 

through which they swim. 

 Dopamine, paroxetine, 

 an injection of adrenaline 

into the bloodstream: 

 these deliver the dissident 

 fuel I crave for the mind's 

pleasure, and for its pain. 

 Call it one song indispensable 

 to trouble the branching 

arteries. The willow divinates 

 toward water, switching 

 in the breeze; it grazes 

the edge but cannot 

 rest there. My fingertips 

 pressed against my temples: 

ten points of sensation, 

 a vaulted cage where 

 starlings congregate 

to rustle their chaos, 

 their alphabet blown to bits 

 in the wind's rush. 

Yes, you heard me. 

 Like an aviary, Plato said, 

 the mind is full of birds.