Letting go， woman， is not as easy as pride<br >or commitment<br >to civilization would<br >have us think. Loveletters crowding against the will<br >The esplanade of your belly， I said， that<br >shallow and gleaming spoon. You<br >said， Not quite<br >an epiphany， our bodies breathing<br >like greedy gills， not quite<br >an epiphany， but close， close. I loved you<br >then for that<br >willful precision，<br >predsion with which you now<br >extricate<br >cool as a surgeon<br >your amphibian heart<br >Here as elsewhere I am struck by the directness and natural-<br >ness of the inflection， the ease of the controls， and the bright<br >tangibility of the perceptions. This is a poetry that rests on the<br >intimate authority and rightness of its sensory data--such par-<br >ticulars as the belly s "shallow and gleaming spoon，" or "our<br >bodies breathing like greedy gills，" or "your amphibian heart"<br ><br ><br >
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