Out of the grass, Walt Whitman! You and I have much to say together. Finely and carefully let us comb our words. Let your beard grow mossy and uncut! I dance in these grasses as the moon dances. Each leaf unfurls individual as a middle finger: "Fuck you! I am that I am," as the Lord sayeth. To me each leaf is a clear word whispering. Together our tide is slowing rising, Lapping, lipping, leaping the grains of the shore. Almost it is sunset between us, as it was dawn Heretofore. Almost, Walt, you come To know my name. Almost, I have found where you are waiting.