but that is water, and I the unsure, un-
believable sense, to see as
though my eyes were changed
by the taking off of
habit, that habit of waking up
myself at blue day’s
start, at whistle, was rapt in
such turquoise consequence
to see, as solidity dropped

from matter, becoming
below me all deliquescent
and teary brine, and I the boat the spine
of which cut down
and delicious shot along to meet
itself again behind—that, and under
that, the sunlit, moving place
we traveled over.