Out of something like despair he gets an urge to fall in the field beside the house and roll under a bush. He resists and doesn’t know why. This happens on the way to work, in the few moments after lunch, and an hour before bed. A huge blossom descends from the sky. Overhead becomes a delicate ceiling, and then he doesn’t know what. Out of something like despair the ineffable is on the fringe of the possible, within which he notices new leaves among the old, and new grass under the bush beaten down in the dampness and by what? 12 February 1983 San Diego