Angel, still

You tell me proudly
over humdrum coffee
that your new
antipsychotic drugs
are effective
that now
you can discern
the difference
between reality
and the delusions
that now
you know to ignore
hallucinations
that try to speak to you
as you travel
on the Number Two bus
in the morning.

Our conversation
is lucid
and utterly banal
and we're both happy
to sit here quiet
in the corner of
the coffee shop
looking again like
normal friends
after you've come
so far
on so difficult
and so stormy
a journey.

Angel, still
you have acid blue eyes
strangely out of focus
in your pale beautiful
renaissance madonna's face
and something behind them
remains lost
in a fluid labyrinth
of arcing sparks and
tenuous chemicals
that is yours alone,
a reality that
sometimes overlaps mine
but that only you
must negotiate.

I wish for you
better maps,
more finely calibrated
navigational instruments,
knowing full well
they may never be
quite as solid
as your chimaeras,
being assembled
by stay-at-home artisans
who can't quite imagine
where you go
what you see
every day you travel
among the rest of us.