Naked under my blanket of peat, bog earth, I was peacefully blind dreaming away my ring. Free without its embrace, and lighter than the stone dog sleeping heavy on my thin legs. Before you, I had my own beauty. You have not given any great gift, no victim forced into stony silence. You almost love me, you say, almost. I do not need your almost -- I had my own which lead me into the dark cold bog: my own almost-too-much standing over me then, staring with art full eyes, broken hands, silent mouth, empty.
11 May 2000