You find Gilbert’s terrain, and it feels like home.
The city and the hard, cerulean sea: really they are
one firm, elemental thing. Visceral, and life made
clear. You find Hass’s terrain, it welcomes you,
soft and fragrant, a mountain meadow with a
stream. The lush, weedy banks, pollen in the air.
They serenade you, and they fit snuggly, but they
are worn. The luster of discovery is gone. So,
there is left but one choice: you search on, wading
into blindness, hoping for some terrain of your own.