It’s gone all vague again, out of this world
Of experience, taste, touch, emotion
To a soft spot wherein one sails toward a pink horizon
Without wind or movement, and the going and the arriving
Are read in the book as the same word —

Like a newspaper hat, angled and sharp, one island looms
Quick upon the heels of another, without even a shred of association in between,
There’s no tomorrow: on this, if on nothing else, one can count
Words, and the words near those words, that only a letter or two would
Distinguish, just as anyone with eyes and a nose
Is very like any other one, more like than say a handkerchief, a log
Or a torrential river is —

The question then becomes, how far does one want this (whatever it is)
To go on, go out or off; if you get one you can easily
Also get another; for the same price
You could get it all, all, but where would that
Leave you, or would it leave you —

I don’t need to worry anymore so neither do you,
Projecting that beam from out my grey-green eyes
It goes as far as eyes can see, as far as light will whirl;
There’s nothing it won’t take in, give out —

O Walt! What happened?
Is the war over yet?