Men are sketchy: gusts of immateriality –
kindergarten paste and chalk eraser dust –
women know men’s breadth and length: they must
in order to manipulate them in their realms of surreality –
all lost in dream. Women are the scientists of scheme:
they see the thing in front
for what it is: they lightly bear the brunt
of men’s effrontery as if it were a tiny gleam
in some frail infant’s eye.
It’s a wonder women deal with men at all.
Some women don’t, of course. They let men brawl
in war and die. It’s a wonder any man gets by.