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
