I’m excited and I’m nervous. And I’m angry because the ones I love have disappeared, walked away. I’m strong now but they’re gone. They didn’t know, and left me here foaming at the mouth, to dissolve in darkness. Darkness calls me. I fight. The poem is written on the whiteness, the whiteness of nothing. When it darkens, the poem is lost. I’m angry because a moment passed when I could, with the power of a fist, have torn my fingers from their joints. I’m angry because relaxed I was nothing, but tense I am wasting.

October 1971