This long line I am in is drawn from the motion of others. It makes us bend in together like next/nest. Draws us out like tubes. I sense the displacement of others bodies in scenes upon this water, where squares of yellowy grass lie, where dimly we seek and seek. I wag the sea for something. The porpoise. It is so fucking grey. There’s H.D.’s letters in neat squares on the glass horizon. This sense of suffering way out on the water, in Paris and on the countryside. Mossy borders, our clothes and hats, the little strips of birds peeling away from the schoolyard. I am trying to give as much as I take in a sense. Diagonal, I, when up to my head in yellow grass today. When on a board on the sea. Sound of screaming in your ear, huh. My face’s feeling when you were backwards, so young and white, it was like moving across a board on the sea. Dots and dots and dots of birds on your back.