.
How could I not— know . . .
See the noncut of soaring eyes,
Approach, moist, ****** and tidal,
Waves so searingly laden with tear,
Flame, forged in some mythic winter
Frozen as I was, before the rush of ice
And flows of glacier, I heard the loudest
Break of open silence in the seep and roar
Of depths' deepest, dark, coldest ocean waters,
  .  .  .  Before sweet suffocations of the very colour
White and saw the dim fates of fade, emergence of blue,
Hearts drowning.