‘Her hair,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘is like a plum.’
He always spoke to his women in the third person.
‘So it doesn’t sound strange when she’s reading it later,’ he would explain to her.
Everything he said to his women went into a poem, and though they were never actually published, he himself would often collect them into small, book-like stacks that he would then make them read.
‘What does she think?’ he’d ask.
She would shrug her shoulders and yawn. ‘I don’t really like poetry.’
‘No, no,’ he would respond, ‘she only inspires it.’
He always spoke to his women in the third person.
‘So it doesn’t sound strange when she’s reading it later,’ he would explain to her.
Everything he said to his women went into a poem, and though they were never actually published, he himself would often collect them into small, book-like stacks that he would then make them read.
‘What does she think?’ he’d ask.
She would shrug her shoulders and yawn. ‘I don’t really like poetry.’
‘No, no,’ he would respond, ‘she only inspires it.’
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