'Hum strews his body along the ruddy shore,
and wants no part of what he cannot be. He is the draught quenched of his absence. He is the flame and body leaping - squinching and quenching in its infinite measures. He is the ichor bile of the tower of saints.
Into me too someone I is peering.
And when that peering turns away,
withdraws its presence from this body,
the life that guides the hand that writes this
shall vanish and be no more.’