There

It is deep summer. Far out

at sea, the young squalls darken

and roll, plunging northward,

threatening everything. I see

the Atlantic moving in slow

contemplative fury

against the rocks, the beaten

headlands, and the towns sunk deep

in a blind northern light. Here, 

far inland, in the mountains

of Mexico, it is raining

hard, battering the soft mouths

of flowers. I am sullen, dumb,

ungovernable. I taste myself

and I taste those winds, uprisings

of salt and ice, of great trees

brought down, of houses and cries

lost in the storm; and what breaks

on that black shore breaks in me.