It’s a calm night. The kind of calm inside which,
hours after having entered another’s body with your own
body, you wonder Did that happen, any of it, and then the staggering away
home from it, as from a crime scene, or the grottoed site of some
miracle believed in by enough pilgrims to make it seem
almost true? . . . It’s as if the calm
contains the night, which contains
the fears that only exist, finally, inside
you. Each fear being different, each contains
its own dream[Symbol]is dream the word? Vision, maybe? Except invisible,
the way certain gestures are, the gesture of sorrow when it shifts, the way
a storm shifts, to something easier to bear