"No one is perfect," I say, and believe
With half my heart; the other half is hers -
To do with as she wants. She likes to stare at it,
See it wriggle, then ignore it,
Hear it writhe in inattention.
Unimpeachable she is, all errors found there wrong;
Indeed she perfect is, its very measure.
What anger she displays, justice cannot help.
If you should spot a flaw upon her surface,
Do not lay down the blame at her;
The flaw is not with her, it's with perfection.

A flaw is strength, and weakness total virtue;
For weak she stands, at each man else's call,
Agreeing with their patent anathemas,
With patience birthing that which should not be.
A puritan, she watches his meandering hand
Traverse her torso, wanting to discover
What covered is; I'm there; will that forestall him?

The light beneath the bushel I can see,
From feet away, not miles, as the sun.
If those too far away cry they're deprived,
Let their restitution come to them, and her remain.
The sun, no one possesses; nor her, either;
But one succumbs to passions, and one feeds them.

The only way to the front of the line is to cut in.
I will be first only when the race is dead
Except for me and her.
My end will likely come before that.
Things go on as they do; the same characters
Pass by her, wink at me, as if I were of their mind.
I am of a mind - that's different altogether.

That line is endless - breaching space and distance,
Extending to the broiling, suffocating stars.
I marvel at their fortune, know their end,
Lament my own unchangedness, thank heaven for it.
She gripes about her lot most onerous
To eager ears of mine, whose eyes glaze over.
Across the table, thinking she regales me,
She holds my ear, before she leaves to greet
The throng that vie for what I cannot fathom.

So far as I can tell, across the table
From her, the worthy winner would assume his rightful seat.
What more than this is in her? I can't say;
She sees it perfectly, and deems it nothing.

To hear words spoken not to me! What bliss, what strangeness!
However I perceive her she perceives herself
When near me she remains; and in my eyes
Perfection is her name, a frown her smile,
Her scorn impartiality.

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