Tomorrow begins anew every day,
and it menaces new thoughts of failure;
but I keep waking up for the replay,
and each instant gets deeper, "more-pressure":
But then I laugh and smell the lavender,
look at the flame over the purplish mass–
this dream's to me as flame to Leander–
and flash forward into the quick morass:
A crisp virgin awaits me, and her voice
is mine; a narrow strait lies between us –
"Cross or die," she says. "It's your only choice."
And I'd die to cross, but which side is us?
Wet and dry, drowned and on ground, I wake up
split by continence, with ground to make up.