"the nymphet, now with a dash of Irish blood, was really much the same lass,... but otherwise the thing was new and had grown in secret the claws and wings of a novel" - Vladimir Nabokov (1956)
He wrote his story, and then went to burn it as promised,
but the wife stopped him on the way to the incinerator
and saved the final copy.
of the cock of her hip
I transcribe immoral words
on the soft fold of her
(Yes, less offensive, shoulder.)
She casts a glance back
then cast a spell.