THE poet gives him a picture of herself posed naked as a Maja on a couch. The Polaroid is ill-lit, badly composed, unflattering to her stomach, and she is shiny of nose. Furthermore, the couch is ugly, done in inch-square black-and-white hounds-tooth check. "Who took the picture?" Simon asks. "Someone," she says, and snatches it away from him.

He is a layman, not a figure in her world. "Youre not a poet, youre a real person," she says. "Of course poets are funnier than real people." She names for his enter?tainment the second, third, fourth, and fifth most beautiful male poets in the country. "But whos the first?" the layman asks. "We keep the position open so that the guys will have something to aspire to," she says. Does she know all of these beautiful poets? Are they all present or former lovers? Simon has no idea how poets behave. Outrageously would be his best guess, but what does that mean in practice? The poets long red hair strays out over the pale-blue pillowcase; her right foot taps time to a Pointer Sisters record. "The dust in your poems," Simon asks, "is it always the same dust? Does it always mean the same thing? Or does it mean one thing in one poem and another thing in another poem?" The poet places a hand under a bare breast, as if to weigh it. "My dust," she says, "my ex?cellent dust. Youre a layman, Simon, shut up about my dust."

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