He couldn't seem to nail his language down. The title squirmed the way an octopus unwinds; when most he felt completely free he found that he'd been duped and bound again, and couldn't breathe. And yet he had to grind it out. This language was the language of the greatest joy he'd ever felt, and more, the greatest pain; it spoke the most of what he felt to be the case. And even though the case was something else, it was the case that had to be his poem. It was as if a jewel-headed snake had cast its eye upon the text he wrote, and with the swift, exotic mischief of its moistened tongue endeavored to entice him into love. Reprinted with permission from Whole Notes Copyright © 1996 by RF McEwen

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