One goes out, out of a porosity of selving that is also a too muchness. G&B 43

Houses wink from the hill__above the pond rank

with run-off in this rain__the tide never stank

like this the wind roars__in my ears the gulls cry

riding the wind nowhere__but down the dark sky

darkens the water to black__the squeals overhead

go white on the surface__say more than can be said