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.
