The poems in this “chapter” are all from decades of my life when the god of love was busiest needling me, albeit the aging reviser in me has often been unfaithful to the young fellow’s words of bliss and grief. The arrangement I have made here, roughly from happy expectation and fulfillment to disappointed snarl (must poetry be “nice”?) is therefore artificial — made to look deceitfully as though a single story curved from beginning to end.