Notebook Nine

9/22/08: 3 am.

The lights are all twinkling down by the river and you can hardly see them through the fog.
The early hours of morning fall like leaves or drops of paint–
broad and sweeping like hips, or the keels of ships
everything is blurry around the edges.
The sky all bright and muffled—a strange murky color
vivid in its opalescence and serene in its long somnambulistic stretch.

The earth is breathing in these dreamy turning hours
that round among themselves like the nodding of a head whose mind has fallen asleep.
While in the temporal fog and infinite gray-green-orange pasture of these hours
I, bewildered, am content to be.

And yet
I am not alone in my journey—
not the sole pioneer into the exquisite discrepancy between night and day
and what comfort does this bring me?
I who walk alone and think alone and am alone?
Into my quiet solitude comes some distant and corporeal physicality,
who intrudes upon my peaceful reveries with reminders of existence—
forcing a monochromatic reality down into my ink-plaited suspended world.

I turn into the fading dark
but there it is again, and again, and again it is there.
What words fall from the lips of lovers
that can be compared to the beauty of the still still evergreen night?
I am caught
and for a moment I submit to the warmth of an embrace.
But I who walk alone and think alone and am alone
I must ever be free
ever be in solitude
forever encased in the blank expanse of murky hours and soft muted lights—
everything there is real if only because it is so hard to see.

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