“You are not always there. At College you were not there, Fanny. Drink was. One took what was to take.” “But now....” “Drink was there first. O I don’t know. When I am drunk I am wrapped in warm smooth clinging stuffs--like entrails--like insides of a great warm creature. When I drink I am wrapped in a woman.... Let me creep into you, Beloved. Farther, nearer. O you are so _whole_. Won’t you let me creep away inside of you?” “Harry I am all open to you. Come.” “No dear. O my love! No, dear, I can’t. God damn you. You entice me ... impossibly. There you are--you are a woman, _there_. I can’t touch you ... you’re _there_. I am here. Touch you? Break you. I’d smash you into this air if I could. Damn you! Damn you. Why shouldn’t I have another drink? _It_ goes inside of me ... all of it ... serves me ... warms me. It’s mine, that. Going inside of me, same as me going inside of it. Inside of you ... impossibilities. God damn your sure solid eyes. Let me get out.” She lifted his head from her lap. “Go then.” He rose uneasy to his feet. He wiped straying silk hairs from his swimming eyes. He turned: stumbled: sank. He sobbed. She placed him on his back on the floor: cradled his head in her hands. “Let me get out! Let me get out!” he shouted, motionless. “Sh-sh. You can go.” “Fanny, Fanny,” he whispered, “hold me ... hold me still.” His body swung on the floor, the floor careened about his eyes. Her arms, cradling him, swaying his head, were alone moveless. She dragged him to bed. He was a helpless drunken child. She undressed him. Her hands, touching his naked body, brought to his face a veil of ease. Her hands ceased. He raised his naked flesh from the hot covers. “Give me a drink!” “No.” His eyes swung back from the wall of her response. But his arms surged forward, they caught her. He dragged her against his naked flesh.... * * * * * She, little woman, sat in her rocking chair on the porch, looked up at the flood of sun and tried to find the world. --Up the sun that is warm and good, up the sun that blinds me Struggling, not overwhelmed, I send my eyes.... She was clad in a pink dress whose dainty softness brought clear the silvery atunement of her body. There was naught slack in her. Her bare arms were a gentling, a subtle rounding of her bones: a haze of dark hair on them: hands rose intact and long from the fine wrists like flower from stem. The little breasts stood in the pink tulle, alert, infinitely one with the awareness of her eyes and wrists ... like the antennæ of a bug holding the world upon their frailty. She sat challenging sun: not wilting: waiting her husband. --Every day now he drinks. He gambles. He loves me. What have I to do with cards and liquor? * * * * *