(Bergen)SEVEN days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas. I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff. Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon. Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky, A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky, And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here. Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain, I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.
I would rather be water than anything else. I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning. And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway ... and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves. Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway. Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.
Bury me in the North Atlantic. A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.
Bury me in an Illinois cornfield. The blizzards loosen their pipe ***** voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.