Horizon Form and the Fisherman
A mass rises past the bay narrows,
is by odds of sand and gull remains;
mars the state of distance proportioned
rightly to my index and thumb angled—
my pressure could put down the edges,
were I a tyrant sort or ship of hammers.
The level is irresolute; my presence is
small and not to you Just.
And to hell if one cannot
know sufferance before control!
This life is engagements. You will see;
I and the mass are at throats
when the harbor