blasée,
the feminine rolls her hidden eye—
he marvels at the width and breadth
of the mystery;
he is her ripened fruit, fallen into life;
and she is the shine of the onyx;
her sight is firmly fixed on horizons
yet to appear;
ever the answer, elusively ahead
of the inquiry—
he is doomed to merely measure and weigh
the residue of meaning
while she propagates it—
futures, mirages materialized in wombs
she is the root that grows the trees,
the gravity that births the stars—
and he,
but that essential afterthought
