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To The Dead

by
 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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