Волны

           Itwasatree;therewastheriver;itwasafternoon;herewewere;Iinmysergesuit;sheingreen.Therewasnopast,nofuture;merelythemomentinitsringoflight,andourbodies;andtheinevitableclimax,theecstasy.

           ’Louis,whenhelethimselfdownonthegrass,cautiouslyspreading(Idonotexaggerate)amackintoshsquare,madeoneacknowledgehispresence.Itwasformidable.Ihadtheintelligencetosalutehisintegrity;hisresearchwithbonyfingerswrappedinragsbecauseofchilblainsforsomediamondofindissolubleveracity.Iburiedboxesofburntmatchesinholesintheturfathisfeet.Hisgrimandcaustictonguereprovedmyindolence.Hefascinatedmewithhissordidimagination.Hisheroesworebowler-hatsandtalkedaboutsellingpianosfortenners.Throughhislandscapethetramsquealed;thefactorypoureditsacridfumes.Hehauntedmeanstreetsandtownswherewomenlaydrunk,naked,oncounterpanesonChristmasday.Hiswordsfallingfromashot-towerhitthewaterandupitspurted.Hefoundoneword,oneonlyforthemoon.Thenhegotupandwent;weallgotup;weallwent.ButI,pausing,lookedatthetree,andasIlookedinautumnatthefieryandyellowbranches,somesedimentformed;Iformed;adropfell;Ifell--thatis,fromsomecompletedexperienceIhademerged.

           ’Iroseandwalkedaway--I,I,I;notByron,Shelley,Dostoevsky,butI,Bernard.Ievenrepeatedmyownnameonceortwice.Iwent,swingingmystick,intoashop,andbought--notthatIlovemusic--apictureofBeethoveninasilverframe.