The water tower poses a challenge. Against
   the shadows of the sky are planes of light.
There seems to be no touching, but actually
   opening before him there’s a narrowing,
the way the world appears. He thinks he sees a bridge—
   cables, a dusty light crossing back and forth
between them. A great geometric pine, silver green,
   stretched until its needles are as thin as mist,
millions of tiny dotted lines, connecting
   the continents between them. Even the dimmest
contrast of this against that, a page turning,
   is as sharp as clouds against the sky. But
how can clouds be sharp against the sky since
   the sky falls infinitely backwards and clouds are
only the center of an edgeless thought? Still,
   through their slow drifting, he can see, like the hour
hand on a clock, the movement of lips in waking,
   what he wants always to get himself through.