the pleasant, fluid taste of life, he toyed with new rhythms. Bits of jade in the rough, that could be polished later or destroyed.
"Last night, I drank a flagon of stars,
I lay down in the blue gutters of the sky
Until the dawn like a spear prodded my ribs."
That wasn't good enough. It needed a line or two to round it out.
"And the dew of morning poured into my eyes
While the moon smiled."
He scowled. It was pretty sentiment, but a bad poem. He'd forget it. Why repeat bad poems when he had composed so many good ones he couldn't remember them all?
With great dignity, he recited:
"The rustling nightfall strews my gown with roses,
And wine-flushed petals bring forgetfulness
Of shadow after shadow striding past.
I arise with the stars exultantly and follow
The sweep of the moon along the hushing stream,
Where no birds wake; only the far-drawn sigh
Of wary voices whispering farewell."
Now that was something like.
Abruptly his mood changed. He thought of his wife.
Too bad he had ever married. He was not suited to do-
