Better get this job over quick. Side by side with the serpent plants and milkoozing fruits. Pain is far. And no more turn aside and brood. Brood on my boots. His boots. I am a Buck’s castoff. Brother soul, Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name. His arm, Cranley’s arm. He will leave me. אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה. I will be what I will be. All or not at all. I shall wait. No. Chafing against the low rocks. Swirling. Passing. Listen: vehement breath. Wavespeech of waters. Seesoo, amid seasnakes. Hrss rearing horses. Rsseeiss rocks. Ooos. In cups of rocks it slops. Flop slop slap. Bounded in barrels. Slopped and churned. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
Whispering weeds: Shhh. Lift your skirts, we are flooded. Let fall. Ahhh we are weary. Lift. Shhh. Flooded. We await fullness. Day by day and night by night. Shhh. Pray to St Ambrose for us. He loves virgins. Shhh. He knows how to hide. Lift. Shhh. Let fall. He will hide us. Shhh. Gather up forthflowing. We are flooded. Shhh. Wending back. We are weary. Help us St. Ambrose. Shhh. Help us.