Page:Big Sur (1963).djvu/192

RV 182 (BIG SUR182) These gentle tree pulp pages which’ve nothing to do with yr crash roar,
 * liar sea, ah,

were made for rock tumble seabird digdown
 * footstep hollow weed
 * move bedarvaling
 * crash? Ah again?

Wine is salt here?
 * Tidal wave kitchen?

Engines of Russia
 * in yr soft talk—

Les poissons de la mer
 * parle Breton—

Mon nom es Lebris
 * de Keroack—
 * Parle, Poissons, Loti,
 * parle—

Parlning Ocean sanding
 * crash the billion rocks—


 * Ker plotsch—
 * Shore—shoe—

god—brash—

The headland looks like a longnosed Collie sleeping with his light on his
 * nose, as the ocean,
 * obeying its accommodations
 * of mind, crashes in
 * rhythm which could

& will intrude, in thy
 * rhythm of sand
 * thought—

—Big frigging shoulders on that sonofabitch