To burrow into this labyrinthine earth-weave, flying carpet of the living earth-top wise old sheiks of mountains ride, and kingly trees: Yes to life, Participation. The stamping of divinity's Official Seal on her Official Rump, tearing away dry woven veils, driven rain-veils, river-vales, trials, trails of denial, old taboos, cocoons, old shibboleths. Why not? When Chance is vibrant red and curved yellow, shiny wet meniscus-windowed stones, pungent stories and leaf-smell-- when Chance is the heart in the chest torn loose from old hard arks, motor-mounts, archness, pried from seabed seabared scabbards dried. Under certain momentous twilights, when the sky tilts, glares, dares deep and full of vintages and vantages of old light, purple and violet, and a high gull passes-- suddenly tears!-- long stars, shotbolts, hands of fire tear apart old face-suitcases stacked beneath the front face; then fathoms come! Faith! Upwellings of Adam. Fathoms come, and the old wooden soldiery of history break formation and run a gust for the new dispensation-- well, the wind is a chair to carry you then: go for the ride!