As ifthe black windowat the solitary passfrom I to this (or you or now)could let a human mindslip through the glassonce,let’s practise seeing water,looking hard at the harbour,that detritus of wornmussel shells, rock ledgesgraffitiedwith an ecstasyof lichen, waveswriting out the riddlesof harmonics,breath heldfor a momentas Elizabeth Bishopin her posthumous voicesays cold dark deep and absolutel ... (read more)