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Art is in the eye of the beholder. In 2018 I wrote a poem about an affair the year before. One of my sisters felt the poem was ugly and vengeful though I intended neither of these. It was not a love poem but rather about the brutality of passion. A friend of mine in Austin 45 years ago told me that after she made love with a certain man she felt like she’d been whupped d with a wet rolled newspaper. I asked her why do it. She replied she could not resist the allure of it. Just so with my battered psyche. That is the point. We examine what has happened to us to make some sense of it. Objective self-analysis, like getting old, ain’t easy. And yet, I can’t resist the allure of it.