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into forms of the living. Nothing seems to rest as wind shuffles the earth and the earth breathes into its inhabitants. Moving over to trees he pulls the limb holding redwood or sequoia points onto his tongue, he again raises his eyes toward the sun's seeming supremacy. Laughter as though he were alive in all books of legend; he prevents a falling within disbelief; gathers his intention and walks to the light tropical woods. It was gentling to him so, that he desired woman to see the softness happening. The moss and the way of the bird pecking through the dew to insect, fading with the wonders of the morning. The form, under which animals conform their homes to the architec- ture of timber, while bending wood forms to final curves above; Here he remained singular unto the ghost of Eve who whispered (pick fruit as you do not think) for strange peace is this empty feeling in the veins of your hands? He could be exalted and allow a handsome loveliness overtake him, but the call for other eyes to make it real was in that part of his body which for all man circles sex. The answer to all things just before action that can never carry with it, lamented even in a gesture; Ever pretending to be suspended over melody, over sea, or flown by away, not fitting for God or art, in later life could take him from belief that his dream and what was there to live in was all there was. He considered land and being abiding with no thought of an outside world. Each man and women and child, their own imposition, no reflection or chance outside of your own possibility for function. At no time could half seem be completed. Too much already was exerting. Maybe the first day of birth for memory was a constant as awaiting to wail. Alone he found he could not make love to animal, and only boat was worth dying for. For that one needed a family. Sometimes this was an answer; giving himself greatness to possibility. Hands poised, eyes naturally set back; the feeling back to the eyes