one night outside of itself--

it came to me a pitch too black.

open eyes might as well of been

closed, and vice versa.

the first thing that came to our mind

was death, which did not pass.

if it was to be survived, it would come

through the intervention of time...

slowly or speedily creeping out of its

unseen hole.

as with the boundaries of desolation

made out by a will to life, where

aloneness takes on the character of

otherness, absent from that company.

so was it night or death, or other that

filled in the blanks of aloneness as it

withdrew its thrall?

what was left there was a refuge which

had sought a refuge from what sought

it, and what came together knew it would

never be alone again--even though that's

all it was.