My breath?

It is nothing but the breath of each and every person,

of all the thewy horses and the gulls,

and the horse chestnut in my dreams,

and the great giant in dreams.

Downstairs, the dog snores loudly

into the rug, and the flies, and outside, the rusted fountain

sprays mist into the atmosphere and out; and in

my dreams, I hear my great giant breathing.

He heaves.

Many years ago, on a wooden dock, at Crystal Lake, at Newton,

at Massachusetts,

in winter,

in December,

in snow,

I peed until the utmost emptying

of everything

into the water,

daughter-

pee, scattered,

tied to the world by golden string,

Sun Dance,

wet.

When I die, I will be swallowed

by worms,

but never abolished

as worms are.

Though it will be winter,

the great chestnut remains;

my great giant remains,

and at its root

he finds shelter.

My words become all persons’, theirs mine.

_This_ a cell,

_that_ a bone,

_these_ the stars I cannot see,

which I was

and will be.

Who are you, at night,

watching the long, yellow plains?

What is that thin breeze?