Journal, Sept. 1981

It is birth;
meeting at a party on any Saturday night
so very late, gin and crosstops balancing each other
the stench of sweat and spoiling oysters ...
some hour fading as you speak ...
Your stories pour out and splash upon eath other.
It is warm. You draw closer.
What was once a party is now a hum.
There is singularity. The words are all forgotten
now; they go and go like a river with
a steady sound. Minutes, or hours, pass.
They feel like ages. You have come so far.
Vaguely you think of drinking more, or
fucking, but there is no need. Some hand
has drawn a circle around both of you.
You want to get that circle closer, tighter,
draw the two of you so close that you must
merge. The sun rises. You leave to find
a place to join.

Invoking the circle: You look deep within
each others’ eyes. All your smiles and
kisses, hugs and comings enter there. They
happen without action. They exist.
You are born. You live. You make love
and feel there is no way to stop.

You wonder:
How can this last? And you fear.
Fear for what the other would do.
Fear for what lurks outside, that
it will creep after you like a shark
incensed by blood. Your hugs grow frantic.
You won’t hang up the phone, and
you say: Without you I will die.
To think of losing the other is death.

And you fear more:
Your are urgent. You feel you must
empty yourself, pour out all that you have,
show that you are an entity worth keeping.
You try an dtry. Trying replaces loving.
Its marks are slow to appear, but they
are indelible.

Something happens: -- you feel a draft
of cold air coming on. A look that turned
away. A pain you see in the other, but
cannot reach. Some bills arrive, or your
home life destabilizes. There is more
turning away. The circle seems tight.
One will seek to keep it tight, fearing
such loss that it maddens. For the other,
the constriction will make you think:
Is this really what I thought it was?
And you doubt. The circle feels too tight.

Only a word, a gesture:
Too much fear,
too much doubt. On a moment it collapses.
The circle breaks open at some bloody point.
It is not wide enought to pass out of.
But there is energy in doubt, in fear,
and the fissure widens, cracks likke bone,
and the air rushes in.

It is death:

It is grief:

You must decide how to handle that grief.