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.