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We take the same steps. How the waves disappear before saying what they allude to, how the letting makes an accumulation in place of an opening. It was a wave, I watched the passage break into foam, into darkness, and pulled my hood over my head to shield from the wind. I confused a wave for a passage. I confused me and you for a twilight. At the top of a small hill, we watched the ocean slowly disappear. How will I know when I make a mistake. Low flying passage of twilight, of me and you, of breaking over. How the letting. I tried to match my breath to each passing wave, but even they are too fast for me. Gibbous moon as a small sun. The need to find another way to contain desire. A line in black ink marks the edge of one thought from another. How will I find expansiveness in touch when I cannot touch you. How, for a moment, the questions happened slowly and there was enough time to ask them twice. There was a holding, I happened at once. Place is an accumulation of meaning, it is a kind of practice. Meaning is an accumulation of form. We step out onto the low grasses and walk across the bluffs. The cliffs are the edge of a letting. Form is the relation between things as a kind of container. It is a way to talk about the present while talking about the past. Pull back and watch a droplet slide down the edge of a leaf, succulent body, edges turned red as if dipped into some liquid, as if also noticing. And then somebody and your wild you. And then what. The steps do something other than knowing. A leaf can always be confused for something other than itself, for a form.