I lay shipwrecked in bed,
tossing in turbulent sea of sheets
and sheets of fragmented thoughts
and moth-eaten memories.

Lost now as I was then,
and finding fast that the past had no power to create a future
and that living itself offers no cure.

And as the earth cradles the moon, like a newborn
I am forced to set off, once again,
and sift through the images that break and fall,
like historic glaciers, from the corners of my brain,
into an ocean of emotion.

Always and only visible to me at night,
that kind blind spot here to help save me from knowing,
Some great secret my heart is not yet willing to tell my head.