A woman daydreaming
Or: She taunts the brink
A detected sign is a vanished symbol.
The lady smokes her pipe. A colossus
haunts and inhabits her frillery.
Yet, fat on the take, she wearies
of writing, tamps her tobacco,
lifts up her skirt, informs Plato
his dinner-talk is as dated
as his corpse, whisks from madhouse
to madhouse where a dollar is sought,
catalogues her melancholies
(numerous them, how the living rise),
counts herself in the image she bought,
buries her uterus, strangles herself
with the wig she wove, and dies twice.
She promptly forgets the man she invented
whose sign is but shorthand for dream,
his symbol for eloquent fantasy.
Else what man would quote her stuttering?