Deeply religious, he walked into the back yard and watching lest the children see him and want what they shouldn't have he approached the grape vines. Selecting a bunch of Delawares he picked it with some difficulty spilling a few of the fruit. Then he walked to the other side and found some blue ones. These too he ate. Then some white which he ate also one by one swallowing the pulp and the seeds and spitting out the skins. He continued to eat but no word came to satisfy. Somehow a word must be found. He felt rather a weight in his belly from eating so many grapes. He, himself that must die someday, he the deeply religious friend of great men and women in incipience, he couldn't find a word. Only words and words. He ate another bunch of the grapes. More words. And never THE word. A novel must progress toward a word. Any word that--Any word. There is an idea. His brother was ill. He must go home. The sun will soon be on the Pacific coast. To bed, to bed--take off the clothes beginning on the outside and working in. How would it be to take off the underwear first, then the shirt-- Progress is dam foolishness.--It is a game. Either I have or--a thieves' game. Hold me close, closer, close as you can. I can't hold you any closer. I have been stealing. I should never touch anything. I should never think of anything but you. I love another. It is a word. I have left you alone to run wild with a girl. I would be tame. Lies flicker in the sun. Visions beset noonday. Through the back window of the shoe-shine parlor a mass of golden glow flashes in the heat. Come into my heart while I am running--jumping from airplane to plane in mid-air. I cannot stop: the word I am seeking is in your mouth--I cannot stop. Hold me against-- You are wrong, wrong Alva N. Turner. It is deeper than you imagine. I perceive that it may be permissible for a poet to write about a poetic sweet-heart but never about a wife--should have said possible. It is not possible. All men do the same. Dante be damned. Knew nothing at all. Lied to himself all his life. Profited by his luck and never said thanks. God pulled the lady up by the roots. Never even said thank you. Quite wrong. Look what he produced. Page after page. Helped the world to bread. Have another slice of bread Mr. Helseth. No thank you--Not hungry tonight? Something on his mind. The word. Who. Liberate the words. You tie them. Poetic sweet-heart. Ugh. Poetic sweet-heart. My dear Miss Word let me hold your W. I love you. Of all the girls in school you alone are the one-- Dramatise myself make it sing together as if the world were a bird who married to the same mate five years understood in the end transmigration of souls.