Together past the old day which was withering like an old day’s leaf without any rain for ages they sat and one said to the other I will make you a beautiful something and the other said Nothing you make will ever be beautiful and this is how it was.

The one took the old day withering and stewed it with the blood of the sunset and his own blood and hid little secret notes that said I love you-- From a Secret Admirer about the blood and stirred in all the hidden places that his sweetheart would like to travel and patched it up neatly and delivered it to his beloved and his beloved stepped over it on his way into the lonesome blue cloudless morning.

The first one was left behind. But I love you! he cried to the one who had trod into morning but there was only the red silence of the evening which was his and he drew about the red shadows and said Let there be darkness and Lo! there was and he went home and watched his own shadow stretch and lengthen along the bare linoleum floor and said Oh there is nothing here and eventually the one killed the other only neither one pulled the trigger but after it all when the one body went away and the other body was just a shell these days the old day withered and out spilled all the secret love notes the first with the sharp ears and the one arm had given the other and the other saw these things and was sad for a time until he stopped being sad at all as all things stop being sad, in one fashion or another.

The old day withered and died. The one found the beloved he’d wanted in the first place, who wrote her own sort of love notes, and together they patched up as much light as they could and ran their own races and were the sort of archetypal pair you’d expect from that sort of thing and if this isn’t a happy ending at least it has happiness in it.

The ghosts whine in the hallways, dogging the motels that the pair rush through. Hush now, hush; they are at the door, knocking. Let them in.

Let them in.

The Song of a Man Who Has Come Through

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.

--D. H.Lawrence