An engorgement of tender susceptibilities ""for P.V.W.; who never was"" (all this monotonous schmaltz is shot through with indeterminacies, modest denials, whatevers, I-don't-knows). They met on vacation in Amsterdam in 1971, R. McK. and the androgynous ""you"" that he picked up one beer besotted ""Sunday Night"" with this sure-fire ice-breaker: ""I'm living,/ no I'm staying,/ down the street./ We can walk."" On Tuesday they made it on the floor of the hotel room (""Hello"") but didn't sleep together until Thursday. That morning ""you"" split without even having left ""a wristwatch/ a damp slip hanging/ in the bathroom,"" which occasions a great sheaf of doggerel about unrequited love before he goes back to sunny California, and then, Part Il, to Mexico in 1974. On Wednesday, he gets a card from ""you"". . . same one? maybe not -- he met this one in Boston -- but does it matter? Spreading it around is also a warm, sensitive, human thing: ""I have walked with you to subways/ when parting was difficult/ and less than twenty minutes later/ been with someone else/ and loved you none the less."" Then there's parting again and waiting, walking down the beach in sorrow and loneliness. Fortunately the author has a menagerie of Old English sheepdogs and nine cats to go home to. You just can't count on those one-night stands.