9. Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all?
Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time's precious chronic invalid,-
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us-
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.
Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised
indolence read as abnegation
slattern thought styled intuition
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mould straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
teargas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.
10.
Well,
she's long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince
but her cargo
.
,
