There is an eclipse
coming. The cold,
open soul of night
narrows. It finds us,
the same dark scratch
tearing at the surface
of things inscrutable,
of things naive. Stars
are the eyes that conspire
to puncture the latex
twilight.
There is still
breathing,
behind you;
even in the rolling thunder
as the sun undoes
my confidence.
And you?
You lose no sleep,
knee-deep in the feathers
that filled me
when I was
your comforter.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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