By Raymond Carver
The mind can't sleep, can only live awake and
gorge, listening to the snow gather as
for some final assault.
It wishes Chekhov were here to minister
something- three drops of valerian,a glass
of rose water-anything, it wouldn't matter.
The mind would like to get out of here
onto the snow. It would like to run
with a pack of shaggy animals, all teeth,
under the moon, across the snow, leaving
no prints or spoor, nothing behind.
The mind is sick tonight.