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Later that same month:
<BR><P>
We gawped and dawdled, quite alone beyond the frequent shore: I astringent, modern beauregard to the core; she less modest, most safe.
<BR>
<i>How to plook the handled shern?</i>
<BR>
Her cryptic tongue is delicate as a frost, plaintive as a sigh. Not tall but long-boned and lean, she's a silk-skinned sylph, moonlight-pale, her every movement a nuance.
<BR>
I turn, she flowing to a halt at my hand.
<BR>
-- There's a density, a sounding light.
<BR>
She attends my words wide-eyed, but her imp-grin belies distraction.
<BR>
I persist:
<BR>
-- Here and there. Beyond those needs less known.
<BR>
My muddle confuses her; she secerns an enigma, a dazzling mind-stop.
<BR>
Further I ply, in warbling song:
<P>
<CENTER>
Death -- she gleams like<BR>
Somber breaths; and Siobhan,<BR>
That rag-doll summoner of my ancient dreams, spews<BR>
Penitent copulations and clandestine progeny. . . .<BR>
A red -- no, a green wall in a round room,<BR>
And a trident and a truncheon and<BR>
A falchion and a spear and<BR>
And and and . . .<BR>
</CENTER>
<P>
If earnestness were success, my endeavor would be a fulfillment. But reality will not yield to reason.<BR>
<i>Mot swoth boe</i>, she murmurs with peculiar rue, her words rustling like leaves into my ear. I am lost in her eyes, so sorrowfully pale, so ruthfully bright.
<BR>
She is drifting, thinning, fading, going.
<BR>
I gasp, aghast.
<BR>
Gone.
<BR>
I'll see her again some day, and the loss of her will hit me like a punch in the chest, it'll grip me like a fist in the coils of my guts. She will linger and smile, and my sluggish soul will stir. Then she'll speak with unequivocal ambiguity:
<BR>
<I> Faux queue.</I>
<BR>
And she'll move on.
<BR>
<P>
<b>Explanatory notes:</b>
<P>
modern beauregard: characterized by ponderous dignity, indistinguishable from aloof arrogance.
<P>
safe (sAf), <i>adj</i>. <b>1.</b> grand, sublime, awe-inspiring. <b>2</b>. <i>Said of a woman.</i> indicates either jaw-dropping pulchritude, or an extraordinary winsomeness which surpasses mere charm to the same degree that Biltmore estate excels a child's sandcastle.
<P>
How to plook the handled shern: might be translated as <i>Wie plueken Sie das handeln schoern?</i>
<P>
Death . . . and and and: The stuff of our dreams. Their meaning, aside from the prominently penile, will not successfully yield to explication no matter how earnest the attempt.
<P>
Mot swoth boe: a murmur, often accompanied by peculiar rue.
<P>
Faux queue: Have you ever seen Al Pacino in <i>Scarface</i>?
<P>
Words are a haven, sheltering us from Truth.
<P>
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