…before the spirit of the God called Field…I am equal to what comes in…I am equal to what flows out…I identify with the worn winter-brown grasses because I step from them and through them…this is my prayer from myself to myself answered by ghost-soaked Earth…owners of cloud and mist…their houses in the hills…their houses in the valleys…their houses in the clouds…our house below the small thunder waterfall…our house twirled over with winter-quiet baroque vines…after fruit and with the dim crawl of love…you with your sky-skin and your dripping bliss…come in me…hey…come to me…hey…may we wander the clinging mists forever…may we wander the clinging mists more often…together…may there be clouds to skim our skins to shrink our misfortune…may storms resuscitate us…hey…can I has the meditation…can I has with us thrift in our drifting filaments can I has constituency in your romance…hey…I am rough equal to what flows out…I am rough equal to having you this way…