From the Fishouse

Motionless forgetful music of women and men
touching each forehead, breathing a soul into each immeasurable other,

on earth where we are, stranger, through madness unattainable
or grace, in difficult traffic reaching for each immeasurable other:

no one on earth (o bitterness, o desire, --who commands the ships?—
or, who--) touching the Lord’s shoulder, and breathing a soul, has measured

this motionless forgetful music of women and men. Thus
I (behind the eye what sleeps?) must from the blind borrow this light.