The eye of the observer alienates what is observed. Or something Bohm said long ago, when one was curious in a different way. Brutal cycles of creation and destruction at last perceived as distinctly feminine and through which one passes to a generative stillness beyond gender. A gold light in October that I remember from long ago, a childhood in which all was given so that in time it might be pieced back together. Muffled distinctions and other softenings. I remember riding on a bus with her through Vermont at night, snow and darkness in moonlight perfectly blue, and how surprised I was over all the miles at the happiness washing over me, wave upon wave of her attention and delight. And so again I come to the table and shuffle the deck and douse the lamp. Shoeless and blind, I wait patiently for whatever enfoldment She decides is coming next.