Robert Bly

December 23, 1926

I was born during the night-sea journey.
I love the whale with his warm organ pipes
In the mouse-killing waters, and I love the men who drift
Asleep, for three nights, in octopus waters.
Men in furs gather wood, piling the chunks by walls.
I love the snow; I need privacy as I move.
I am all alone; floating in the cooking pot
On the sea, through the night I am alone.