In Mind
There's in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadomed but
fair-featuned and smelling of apples
or grass. She wears a utopian smock
or shift, her hair is light brown and
smooth, and she is kind and very
clean without ostentation, but she
has no imagination and there's
a turbulent moon-ridden girl
or old woman, or both, dressed
in opals and rage, feathers and torn
taffeta, who knows strange songs
but she is not kind
