What do you think?
Rate this book
307 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
How beautiful it is, when waking,
To find one's lover at one's side;
The delicate slow light is breaking
Irresolutely through the wide
Bay windows of their bedroom, falling
On Liz's hair, and John's recalling
How last night she untied it, how
It flowed between his hands; but now
She lies asleep, unswiftly breathing;
Her thoughts are not with him, her dreams
Traverse the solitary streams
Of inward lands, yet her hair, wreathing
The pillow in a mesh of light,
Returns to him the fugitive night.
“How are the cats?” “Just fine.” “And you?”
“Great.” “And the sculpture?” “Yes, that too.”
“Your singing group?” “Oh, not too badly.
But I came here to hear your song.
Now sing!” “Jan, I don't know what's wrong.”
“How did it—” “Can you see it clearly?”
“Oh no, it's very faint—but if
You're at this angle…” “So it's nearly…”
“What was it, Phil—a lovers' tiff?”
“I…guess so.” “When?” “Last week.” “Fantastic!
You've gone back to your orgiastic
Pre-Claire routine! Now, play by play,
And man to man, let's hear…” “No way!
It's private.” “Nonsense!” John says, frowning:
“You've grilled me—come on—fair is fair—
Shake off that surreptitious air.
Who did that to you? Quit the clowning!”
“Who do you think?” “I must confess
I can't so much as start to guess…”