At Least it Prompted Me to Grip His Shoulders Tightly

I love rediscovering sex.

Apologetically, Laura Whitcomb's novel _A Certain
Slant of Light_, amounted to little less
than, well, soft porn.

Not true. Not fair.

But the ending was so rushed! So undeveloped.
This is her first novel, she lives in Oregon,
the pulse of American writing right now--so I'm told--
yet, she did this to her work?

I could never take the plunge.
Another friend and I were chatting
on our way to the Oasis--
what do you do when the book is out of your hands?
Out of your control?
You suddenly see great gaping errors and flaws,
knowing others see them too . . .

sit back and say ha-ha, I'm published
and you're not. Kneener-neener?