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are bigger than yours.
    HE: Aha, but they don't exist. (He rearranged himself.)
     
    'So when you dream of that pneumatic water-sprite, breasts a-bouncing, are you compensating for my success?'
    'Hell, no, she's just a hopeless male's porno-girl. They get delivered by the breast-load.'
    'And that's all?'
    'That's all.'
    This is the man that prises open the deepest clams of matter. Would you go fishing with him?
    I did. We took a boating holiday in the Bermudas. Rocks, pale-red in the chrome water, chrome surf plating the boat.
    We made a small indulgence in the dazzling austerity of the bay; its tin-tautness, the look of sheet metal, seeming to force the waves out hot-pressed not cold. The waves blistered off its smoothness, hit us with a clang and fell back again, bubbling, splitting, onto the sea tray. Perhaps we had fouled the compass and come to a magnetic pole where we were spinning, spinning in a steel sea. In the ferrousness of our situation Jove landed a fish tough as a bar.
    He said, 'If we don't eat this we can use it to break into the hotel safe.'
    'What's down there?'
    'The fake diamonds of the fake Countess.'
    'No. Down here.'
    He came and lay down and stared over the edge of the boat. We could see our severed heads.
    'You and me in another life.'
    'Do you think we'll ever find it?'
    'What's wrong with this one?' and he rolled over heating his body in the sun.
    In the bow of the boat the fish panted.
    I started to talk about the well and as I did so the boat becalmed itself or maybe the water tightened but we were as still and solid as a frozen boat on a frozen lake. Jove wasn't listening to me, which was as well otherwise I'm not sure I could have gone with it. It became a kind of active dreaming and the fish looked like a baton in the boat, beating time to me.
    Under there, where what I am sure of is back to front, inside out, reversed, I feel in the way that I presently think, that is constantly, lucidly, testing all experience against feeling, clear and powerful as the water it suspends in.
    Here, what I know by sensation, there, I know by intuition.
    My empirical finger-tips numb and I can't open my eyes. What I see, what I touch is interior, either I am inside it or it is inside me. It is only vague when I subject it to the laws of the upper air. It is as though there is an entirely other way of being that makes no sense to my world, any more than my world makes sense to it. I cannot connect the two; the watery world won't move up into the dry bright light that I live in and when I take the dry bright light down there it immediately de-charges, leaving me to rumble my way in the dark.
    This has been happening for years and I used to conceive of it as a poet's place or a place of inspiration; a place I imagined but where I could never actually visit. It comes closer to me than I am able to come to it. Dreams do dream us, don't they? We are not the ones in control.
    Distinctly though, in the boat in the rigid sea, I had a premonition of finality. That if I did not find a way to go there soon, the seductive watery shaft would fill with rubble and I would never again approach further than its rim.
    I jerked my head away and looked down the length of our little boat. Jove had fallen asleep and the fish was dead.
    What is the moment of death? The hook, the line or the sinker? When I fell in love with him? When I trusted him? When he betrayed me? What kind of death is it?
     
    I lay on the torture bed listening to its wounded springs seize as I moved. The uncoiled metal was twanging gently at the floor, a crazy lute for a crazy lover. I reached out my hand and rattled the wooden slatted blind. Lovers like music, don't they? This had been a lover's bed. I wondered if she could hear it, wherever she was, hear me, composing for her. I was no longer able to observe the steady four-four time of normal life. The rhythm didn't suit me. Perhaps it had never suited me, and I had been dancing along the way winos do, all