The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.
What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.
And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.
What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?