To the Dead
What I hope (when I hope) is that we'll see each other again,-- . . . and again reach the VEIN in which we loved each other . . It existed. It existed. There is a NIGHT within the NIGHT,-- . . . for, like the detectives (the Ritz Brothers) in The Gorilla, once we'd been battered by the gorilla we searched the walls, the intricately carved impenetrable paneling for a button, lever, latch that unlocks a secret door that reveals at last the secret chambers, CORRIDORS within WALLS, (the disenthralling, necessary, dreamed structure beneath the structure we see,) that is the HOUSE within the HOUSE . . . There is a NIGHT within the NIGHT,-- . . . there were (for example) months when I seemed only to displease, frustrate, disappoint you--; then, something triggered a drunk lasting for days, and as you slowly and shakily sobered up, sick, throbbing with remorse and self-loathing, insight like ashes: clung to; useless; hated . . . This was the viewing of the power of the waters while the waters were asleep:-- secrets, histories of loves, betrayals, double-binds not fit (you thought) for the light of day . . . There is a NIGHT within the NIGHT,-- . . . for, there at times at night, still we inhabit the secret place together . . . Is this wisdom, or self-pity?-- The love I've known is the love of two people staring not at each other, but in the same direction.
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