At the periphery of my sleep, breaking waves is an emotion I have become a stranger to.

It looks like simple joy and on touch moves that way too, in simple steps down the street.

It opens the door, enters with -out knocking and stands at my bed waiting for me to awake.

What shape is it, what seamless form? Is it like sweet wine swirling over my senses of smell and taste?

Or is it like a flower, a dogwood tree in bloom, little stars like snow that line the avenues in my wintry dreams?

I don't know, I don't know and I call out, my eyes closed, "Who goes there?". And then it vanishes into

the night, walks into a door into which I can't enter, not tonight, not right away: like a red woman who has left me now with

thoughts of wine, flowers and discontinous sleep.

2002:12:12 23:30 Atlanta