Entry In an Old Journal

Not until I read
the faded words
did I recall
either the argument
or the night that
preceded it, when
as she lay, dreaming,
beside me, I
could not sleep,
but stared
at a dark window
which opened inward,
and found myself a
stranger in my own
bed, unable
to explain how I
got there.  Months
passed between
those events, yet
now --reading of them,
as if of the life
of some stranger-- I
juxtapose the two in
Each time, something
was lost; only
the colour of the losing
changed:  Black, then
Red.  Each time
touched the other in
some way that will not
obey the laws
of clocks.  Each
time, then, becomes
a bridge toward
the other.  Now, many
loves later, I am
forgetting which
woman lay next to
me, which woman
raised such anger
that cannot be
recalled except
by reading faded words. 

W. Luther Jett