it was this copper light drizzle
sinking in our pupils
(suffocating in each others’)
turning everything into
yearn, dream and typhlosis.
ah I could have begged
I could have crawled
and ripped my senses
(purpose, reason and despair)
and howl to this atrocious god.
he still wouldn’t even look at
still would even mutter
about all this yearn, dream and typhlosis.
& first sunlight.
I could never close my eyes to light.
But there was no light
& you looked like night.
Our arms laced together,
over wind-tossed grasses.
Us: waist deep in night blue.
Ast-noapte iar a nins
Când tu visai
Albastre flori de mai.
Ce flori în toiul iernii
Acum doar gerul sticlă
Pictează flori la geam.
Visai doar flori de mai.
i thought you could see past my skin
and guess my raspberry bones
i thought you could see all the diamonds
but never stared at anything else but at worms
take a look at all these feathers
you stepped on
with your new boots
and take a look at all these eyes
you spitted on
with your new guts.
take a look at all this fear.
When she closed the door to the gray room the outside light was cut off and only the reading lamp threw its cone on the table. She arranged the pillows, patted them up, and sat down. She leaned her head experimentally against the down pillow. She felt rather gay, as though she were going to a party. Gingerly, she fished the chain out from her bodice, unscrewed the little tube, and shook the capsule into her hand. She smiled at it.
“Eat me,” she said and put the capsule in her mouth.
She picked up the tea cup. “Drink me,” she said and swallowed the bitter cold tea. She forced her mind to stay on Alice—so tiny and waiting. Other faces peered in from the sides of her eyes—her father and moth er, and Charles, and Adam, and Samuel Hamilton, and then Aron, and she could see Cal smiling at her.
He didn’t have to speak. The glint of his eyes said, “You missed something. They had something and you missed it.” She thrust her mind back to Alice. In the gray wall opposite there was a nail hole. Alice would be in there. And she would put her arm around Cathy’s waist, and Cathy would put her arm around Alice’s waist, and they would walk away—best friends—and tiny as the head of a pin.
A warm numbness began to creep into her arms and legs. The pain was going from her hands. Her eyelids felt heavy—very heavy. She yawned.
She thought or said or thought, “Alice doesn’t know. I’m going right on past.”
Her eyes closed and a dizzy nausea shook her. She opened her eyes and stared about in terror. The gray room darkened and the cone of light flowed and rippled like water. And then her eyes closed again and her fingers curled as though they held small breasts. And her heart beat solemnly and her breathing slowed as she grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared—and she had never been.
John Steinbeck, East of Eden