A wet and weblike god grew there.
—Jack Spicer
I still can’t think of paradise
without thinking of you. How
many nights, the view of the
plummeting vista—the
ridge correcting its course—
are sideswiped by these
fantastical visions? You lie,
knees bent upward on the
beach of a non-existent is-
land? What I mean by that
is a blaring love that per-
meates the sinking earth—
that is one with the sound
of the earth as it sinks ever
deeper—and the spindrift
that smolders the Pacific.
