Olympics

Clouds in the snow teeth of mountains,

captive in turrets of stone,

spires in the blood of the sunset

bruising the flesh to the bone.

Rock spikes pinion billowing fleeces,

crushing deep where the mass is most soft,

yet ripping no rent in the heaven,

no snag in the silk of the loft.

The fog, the white breast of the maiden

cupped in rough ruffian's hand --

one ravenous terror and glory,

the joy of the pain of the land.