Can she hear the willful wail of a workaday heart? In league with a literal eye it framed her in fresco, myopicturesque.
Her question arrested:
``To what do you aspire?''
Was there an answer?
Not the real one: ``You.''
Definitions, deft or deep:
virtues, both, and verities -
and, in the heart-realm, rarities.
``Mortal feelings...'' There it is, stark.
So then what course to take,
what path from pathos:
Mortal fleeings - to bolt from beauty?
To shrivel in the shell so gently jarred
by fingers of a woman?
Her bright benediction beckons -
alas, to all.
To what does she aspire?
Lyric lieutenants and commanding
Or the struggles of a common man?