Thursday, March 13, 2014


Could I ever have been, in any world,
That kind, who boldly ignored and would not
So easily forgive, whose patience was more
Like a tissue than a cloth?  Was there
Any myself elsewhere who could not see
So easily outside her own windows,
One who perhaps had no windows,
And, thus doomed to a certain weakness
Of the imagination, took no other into account,
Held herself a thing above, brooked no dissent?
I view myself as thoughtful and creative,
A woman fully capable in her imagination,
But no such strange creature can I find
When my spirit throws open the doors
And goes for its habitual stroll
About the public streets.

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