Suppose I had never distinguished myself to myself from the landscape so that reaching out to touch a leaf of chickasaw plum or a spiny pondweed underwater were no different to me from putting my hand on my knee or pulling. my fingers through my hair. And that which was not tangible I understood as my expression to myself of my inclinations -- my violet serenity synonymous with distant levels of blue rain against a ruddy hill, my opening circling into sex one with the gold and russet revolution of the sun into dusk. In the new forming of lilac or pear blossoms I realized the color and fragrance of my balance redefined every spring. I knew the horizon as that seam made by the meeting of my sight and my word, and recognized the night and the day as my own slow breathing in and slow breathing out of light. Then surely the small ebony hobble I'd notice one evening appearing out of an ancient canyon syntax, I'd understand simply as a further aspect of myself. And as it became larger, slowly obliterating the purpose and combustible prairie-presence of myself, I wouldn't be frightened, knowing that it came to me from my own depths, its empty eyes my creation, its steady grin the white stone of my history. And when it lifted and spread its cloak finally, as if it were my will filling the sky, and I called it my name, it would be easy to be taken and covered by my own possession, to put my mouth against it, my star-pocked arms tight around its neck, to draw in, sucking, swallowing, consuming completely every quiet fold and release of the last event of my life.