In bed this night, my blindness separates us, shock, less than being, hinged to a turning world, the past, and swung in blackness back to see I have hurt you, which hurts me, enough to grasp the central pain, what it is, what is it, you help me ask to unhinge heart from world, free eyes from fear, pain from heart, I love you, I love you, and here you are and I am here in a light in which we hold ourselves between the blankets.

20 November 1981, Menlo Park