“Season late, day late, sun just down, and the skyCold gunmetal but with a wash of live rose, and she,From water the color of sky except whereHer motion has fractured it to shivering splinters of silver,Rises. Stands on the raw grass. AgainstThe new-curdling night of spruces, nakednessGlimmers and, at bosom and flank, dripsWith fluent silver. The man, Some ten strokes out, but now hangingMotionless in the gunmetal water, feetCold with the coldness of depth, allHistory dissolving from him, isNothing but an eye. Is an eye only. Sees The body that is marked by his use, and Time's,Rise, and in the abrupt and unsustaining element of air,Sway, lean, grapple the pond-bank. SeesHow, with that posture of female awkwardness that is,And is the stab of, suddenly perceived grace, breasts bulge down inThe pure curve of their weight and buttocksMoon up and, in swelling unity,Are silver and glimmer. Then The body is erect, she is herself, whateverSelf she may be, and with an end of the towel grasped in each hand,Slowly draws it back and forth across back and buttocks, butWith face lifted toward the high sky, whereThe over-wash of rose color now fails. Fails, though no starYet throbs there. The towel, forgotten,Does not move now. The gazeRemains fixed on the sky. The body, Profiled against the darkness of spruces, seemsTo draw to itself, and condense in its whiteness, what lightIn the sky yet lingers or, fromThe metallic and abstract severity of water, lifts. The body,With the towel now trailing loose from one hand, isA white stalk from which the face flowers gravely toward the high sky.This moment is non-sequential and absolute, and admitsOf no definition, for itSubsumes all other, and sequential, moments, by whichDefinition might be possible. The woman, Face yet raised, wraps,With a motion as though standing in sleep,The towel about her body, under her breasts, and,Holding it there hieratic as lost Egypt and erect,Moves up the path that, stair-steep, windsInto the clamber and tangle of growth. BeyondThe lattice of dusk-dripping leaves, whitenessDimly glimmers, goes. Glimmers and is gone, and the man, Suspended in his darkling medium, staresUpward where, though not visible, he knowsShe moves, and in his heart he cries out that, if onlyHe had such strength, he would put his hand forthAnd maintain it over her to guard, in allHer out-goings and in-comings, from whateverInclemency of sky or slur of the world's weatherMight ever be. In his heart he cries out. Above Height of the spruce-night and heave of the far mountain, he seesThe first star pulse into being. It gleams there. I do not know what promise it makes him. ”

“She heard the zip of his pants, and expected him to step away from her, leave her alone in the bathroom to pull herself together. Instead, his hands were very gentle as he moved her out of the way, running water into the tiny sink.And then his hands were between her legs, and he was washing her, and she was too shocked to do anything more than let him. He tossed the paper towels, then took her discarded clothes from the floor and put them on her, waiting patiently as she lifted one foot, then the other. She was trembling, weak, totally compliant, and when he finished he wet another paper towel and washed her face with it, gently, like a lover.”

“He slid his hands up her back and lifted her until they were eye to eye. She held his gaze, those changeable eyes of hers blue now, reflecting the water and the sky. And finally she let go, unraveled, squeezing him tightly, wrapping herself around him in sensual pleasure. Her cries, amplified by the water and ancient stone, reached out and connected to something so fundamental inside him it felt like his soul. He closed his eyes and cried out as he followed her back into the void.”

“Delilah cried out, lifting her head. The only truth that mattered right now was how much she needed him. Powerful thighs flexed against her own as he began to move. He reached for her, pulling her up, against his chest, his hands clasping her breasts, mouth open on the back of her neck. He drew hard, pumping up into her relentlessly, meeting her rocking motion back to him. Her head fell back on his shoulder, her own hands latching over his. Their fingers wove together, their bodies moving as if they’d been lovers for years.As if they’d been made for each other.”

“(...) the train goes fast and is going fast when it crosses a little trestle. You catch the sober, metallic, pure, late-light, unriffled glint of the water between the little banks, under the sky, and see the cow standing in the water upstream near the single leaning willow. And all at once you feel like crying. But the train is going fast, and almost immediately whatever you feel is taken away from you, too.”

“There was the bulge and the glitter, and there was the cold grip way down in the stomach as though somebody had laid hold of something in there, in the dark which is you, with a cold hand in a cold rubber glove. It was like the second when you come home late at night and see the yellow envelope of the telegram sticking out from under your door and you lean and pick it up, but don't open it yet, not for a second. While you stand there in the hall, with the envelope in your hand, you feel there's an eye on you, a great big eye looking straight at you from miles and dark and through walls and houses and through your coat and vest and hide and sees you huddled up way inside, in the dark which is you, inside yourself, like a clammy, sad little fetus you carry around inside yourself. The eye knows what's in the envelope, and it is watching you to see you when you open it and know, too. But the clammy, sad little fetus which is you way down in the dark which is you too lifts up its sad little face and its eyes are blind, and it shivers cold inside you for it doesn't want to know what is in that envelope. It wants to lie in the dark and not know, and be warm in its not-knowing.”

“As the sun began to rise, the man reached out to the woman, and they clasped hands. He cradled her, and languidly they lifted themselves up to their feet, their bodies brushing, their eyes lost in each other's. Sensuously, deliberately, they danced, moving as though they were one, their body language smooth as their limbs carefully unfolded. They twirled and rocked, intertwined and separated, nearly leaning onto one another but barely touching, their movements sometimes tender, sometimes almost violent...Moments passed while the dancers held tight to each other, as though their bodies were melting together. The expression on their features as they lifted their faces to the sky was one of unimaginable joy.”