Endless Lesson

The wind moves my hand when it blows;
ev’ry stroke is as strong as a mule’s kick
and the bristles of the brush are dipped in the ink of Adam’s bone.

In me there’s a battle between the weeping of ghosts
and the beast who’s tryin’ t’let out his dying howl.

Red specks on blue lips–
O mother, take me back home
on the wings of a butterfly before I grow cold.