At Princeton, where classes and Triangle
Club stood no chance against dry London gin
and loneliness, he swore the muse dangled
phrases before him on necklaces. When
he dedicated himself to craft, not
even Scribner’s rejecting his first book
stabbed him deep as that light—flashing like shots
on great Sound’s far side—that sad light. He’d look
up at flickering Orion, study
his belt and listen for subtle rhymes. Down
in Montgomery, rapt in rhapsody
of crickets, she’d pirouette—her lace gown
a sweeping vision—chant odes of love’s joy
to the Hunter, sneak off drinking with boys.
Roger Armbrust
April 25,
2013
