A point, a line, alignment. Lovely the lingering lights along the shore as the century lays itself out for observation: hunger and the youthful indiscretion. I am one of many, or not even one, but am of many one who watches the waves and allows the particulate sand its say, say, its sound, susurrant. Of many one engaging the ear as if the Pacific meant its name, as if the edge of continent contented us with boundary. Draw a line from A to B. Live there.
Into Bad Weather Bounding
(After Wallace Stevens' "Of The Surface Of Things")
Colligated points, dust, ultimately a cloud, as in an orographic cloud in Colorado cringing against a horizon. Boundaried vision and vapor conspire to exhale, exalt into rain random dispersal into the present: I see as far as that. I never saw farther. In sinking air, mammatus cloud a sign the storm has passed is passing... I walk happily whenever or sometimes pass the last bad sign the bounded land, I am sad as you are doubtless. Sad said the bad man, somber. Otherwise say: In my room the world is beyond my understanding;/ But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.