Eros stricken, Peter Marcus has explored, and fled to and from, some eighty countries, writing poetry that honors the English language wherever he is. His guides are historians, geographers, fallen stars, and other poets. A poet, patient, shrink, he practices in Eden and the twenty-first century. Marcus is touched in the head, soul, and body; blessed, a father of twins: poetry and music. Still he ties himself into and escapes from lyrical straitjackets. Marcus has earned the right to sit at a Thanksgiving table with the Devil, James Joyce, strangers, and his own family. His poetry clarifies what we are not quite thinking. If you spend time with him this afternoon, I think you will keep his company for years.