Chicago

Walking by the lake to find out love
I met a man in black. The waves ran high,
Although there was no wind. The dawn was due
And overdue.
The land’s rage spent itself in dream.
He stood there (on a skull painted
By someone to warn swimmers of rocks),
Not close to me, but close enough
So I heard him when he said,
“There’s something in the waves out there.”
I said, “It is the rocks,” and turned away
Toward where the waves flamed white.
He was a strange man.
I thought we never could have touched.
But, then, from the wild tumult came a stroke of light
And up upon the lakeshore near Chicago
Six wild horses drew the chariot of the sun.

And now, in sleep, there comes this memory of triumph
Compelling me to yell, “O rock, rock, rock,”
Standing above me like a great wind
And forcing out laughter shout after shout
“Is it I, is it I who am wracked with joy
Who say Yes, Yes, Yes?”
Until my voice is not my voice
But old, forgotten phantom voices
Torn with exultation.

                                       —There comes to me in sleep
A shout of triumph, setting myself against myself,
Whipping me with cords until I dance
Bruising my body with its own lost violence
Waking me,
astounded by the lark and terror of the morning.