With these I would be. And with water: the waves coming forward, without cessation, the waves, altered by sand-bars, beds of kelp, miscellaneous driftwood, topped by cross-winds, tugged at by sinuous undercurrents the tide rustling in, sliding between the ridges of stone, the tongues of water, creeping in, quietly.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire. My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. The mind enters itself, and God the mind, and one is One, free in the tearing wind.