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to foretell my own obsolescence.
What place I, in the place where she lives?
What good my French cuffs
in that long desert?
When I kissed her I knew
she was not like me:
she knew none of the secret
houndstooth shames
that gentlemen know.
Her Galapagos-soul
had flashed past all that,
and she moved like dust on the plain.
A gentleman comes boldly,
when he comes.
He knocks at a little round door,
all etiquette, bred like a dog
to race after her, oh, to run,
while she speeds ahead in her uncatchable orbit,
spinning on her silver rod
always,
always,
so very like a living girl,
always,
always,
so very much faster than he.
I cannot go to Mars.
I am extinct there—
customs would never let me pass.
The days of maids yelping in chicken yards,
scared half to death of a hymen
