No one misunderstands my satieties
Once they have had at the Caprichos
Without knowing what they are, that they are,

One can, she says, rewrite the story so it
becomes a progress-tale , a Bildungsroman ,
at the end of which our protagonist,

Perhaps, like everything, it has its flow and ebb,
The way nowhere, I mean, your brutal question.
Not that you were asking me. You asked no one

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.

My dear, you moved so rapidly through my life
I see you as a ghostly blur;
You are the subject, I the ornament

      They are far from shore.
Foam-glittering , they rise from the waves
      in a pure fountain

It rests on tiny roots, a vision of angles,
And lives long.

It has no passion for gossip and little need for the usual,

I'd seen him scuttling under a parked car
In the oil-stained side street near the auto shop,
Or peering from beneath the juniper bush

A cloche in plum,
In lion marigold,
Or mannish toques; a Borsalino. Bring

Except it didn't. It went underground
as some diseases have been known to do,
returning with a vengeance in our time.