Out of the wings of the arrow (do arrows
Have wings? Then how else coud they
Fly?) comes the absolute flight,
Freed from all 'depends' and pending
On the sullied air. The air is sullied,
Like her body, thinks the German Herr
Klingmeister, who has developed a solid
Philosophy of just these things --
You will find the details
And the details of the details
Underneath the covers (of his book).
But the wife (Das Weib)?
We have been patching her together,
We masters of stethoscopes,
Doctoring her,
And attending the child's birth.
Where is the midwife, says this
'She thinks' (also in quotation marks),
Which peers into the innermost heart
With a word, a hard word, while her body
Like the fruit on the tree,
Whose attendant veins accomplish grace
With all the sugars of the processed soil,
Swells until it bears and dwells
In the infinite seeds of race.
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