A Weak Mind in the Mountains

There was the butcher’s hand.

He squeezed it and the blood

Spurted from between the fingers

And fell to the floor.

And then the body fell.

So afterward, at night,

The wind of Iceland and

The wind of Ceylon,

Meeting, gripped my mind.

Gripped it and grappled my thoughts.

The black wind of the sea

And the green wind

Whirled upon me.

The blood of the mind fell

To the floor. I slept.

Yet there was a man within me

Could have risen to the clouds,

Could have touched these winds.

Bent and broken them down.

Could have stood up sharply in the sky.