A bird flies Nature throws itself to the wind And all enchanted bodies Sleep not tonight
Roaring tides of sea took clouds As chariots deep and light as terror Or awe at what could be the last Wink of lightning on chains of evening
I rooted myself to this bushel And bore the berry, nature told me thus For life may be as fruit near fallen Or rotten-putrid, alcoholic mess.
Driftwood sees me early And I wake when the storm is over Not me I told, not shaven me I am wild now, I have seen the cold.
So woe, those days may live again, But I will take the razor once more And live as apes may call themselves human And live as comfortably as I may after all. Away from the storm, But not gone.
Written in an art gallery, looking at a painting of a storm