The Hunt Is On

The hunt is on – you think for – well,
you just ate several of last night’s left-over
ravioli, cold from the refrigerator – and,
although you won’t go into the details, you

had a session of quite satisfying sex with
someone you quite like – not quite a half
an hour of it – ah, but too much “quite”!
Command of qualifying’s lost its bite.

Nothing has a taste. Well, there is a smell
(that man!) – and what should now have just
arrived by email but a New York Times
review of all the latest books! – announcing

the appearance of the second half of
a biography of Henry James that you’ve
been waiting for – and suddenly cold
ravioli and your sexual shenanigan and all

the vague distressing ambience of Christmas
have acquired a form: you warm to some
fine deep grand Jamesian amplitude
that tells you everything depends on choice,

and every choice is suspect, meaningless,
or tragic – and there’s glory in exploring it.
You want the largest portion of the magic.
The hunt is on – and something now begins

to taste of something. Mr. James and your
shenanigan and the inquiring you sit
down in your imagination to a bowl of
ravioli – this time piping hot. It hits the spot.


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