9.8.99

I find my mother's embrace in small dark spaces. It is the narrow rectangle of mattress next to the wall, comfortered completely round. A self-banishment to a pitch-black cube where sounds don't come and the absolute stillness settles in shivers of peace. Sleep is where I go when I cannot bear to live without her. +++ Shadow has tipped the scale and is now more saturated than the light that makes it. Light itself is making last histrionic gestures: The blinds are beveled just right to flood it into this room as one brilliant stellar explosion. The red was never so pink.

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