Intermittents

I can remember, now

I feel it again. . .

That pitch black blanket of time

flowing in, flowing out of reality

limbs, entangled --

whose limbs?

Flowing in

a blackish gray movement

adjustment

then, a definable motion

tentacles, smoothly sweeping over

my grayness

my tepid --

Flowing in

I check again

is it skin?

There is something

blocking my aloneness

Flowing in

it's something 

completely outside of me --

foreign

but as gray

almost as familiar

adjustment

it moves again

Flowing in

my god, it's a hand!

Oh, yes, of course

it's a hand

warm, defined

I find a hand, myself

I move it across they grayness

in front of me

Flowing in

it's him, again

we stir

I entertain a thought

What is the time?

I keep my eyes closed

Flowing out

no matter

no worry

no more thoughts

warmth and stillness suffice

-- and the vision

Flowing out

quicksilver going down

a fountain

some words I'll never 

remember

Flowing out

into blackness

and streaks of colors

Heavy, heavy

Here,

I have no grayness

to call my own. . .

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.