Of Course, Almeda in her observations cannot escape words. She may think she can, but she can`t. Soon this glowing and swelling begins to suggest words -- not specific words but a flow of words somewhere, just about ready to make themselves known to her. Poems, even. Yes, again, poems, Or one poem. Isn`t that the idea -- one very great poem that will contain everything and, oh, that will make all the other poems, the poems she has written, inconsequential, mere trial and error, mere rags? Stars and flowers and birds and trees and angels in the snow and (lead children at twilight -- that is not the half of it. You have to get in the obscene racket on Pearl Street and the polished toe of Jarvis Poulter`s hoot and the plucked-chicken haunch with its blue-black flower. Almeda is a long way now from human sympathies or fears or cozy household considerations. She doesn`t think about what could he done for that woman or about keeping Jarvis Poulter`s dinner warm and hanging his long underwear on the line. The basin of grape juice has overflowed and is running over her kitchen floor, stain ing the boards of the floor, and the stain will never come out.