She cannot tell.He's a very important person in his own right, she has quickly learned.A big man, perhaps even a great one, is Randy Buck.He sits ther... patiently, in his robe, in his den (Doesn't the man ever wear any clothes at home? she wonders), waiting for her to either continue or leave, inviting neither action.Studying her like a bug under a microscope, or so it seems to her.Strange man, really.A combination of heat, in the form of sexual passion for her, and coolness, one might even say. BLOOD-SLICK HANDSThe planes of his mindAre busy, bees flittingAnd darting in pink and lavenderPuffs to bleed their beautifulEntrails across easel after easel:The Crucifixion,The Trial of Socrates,The Apocalypse Postponed,Giger shapes, sinuous and suggestiveAs loose lyrics soaked in butterTo facilitate their slideDown parched and aching throats;There is an end to all thingsBut the sadness at the pit of my soul,The honeybee's black wasp nightmareAnd the secret of honeyed hives.COULD HAVE, WOULD. More

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