  She moved in a calculating trot, Relinquishing hairsbreadths of her life With each step, and gathering Atoms of humour and melancholy Into one last excuse for existence. It is true that she was playing Housewife to her thoughts and emotions. Her intangible household had attained A weak and exquisite indirectness, And she fiddled with its meager neatness; Protected them as they stooped Over the knitting of remorse; Fed them platters of minced scandal And mildly censured the relish with which they ate; Persuaded them that they could dream best When they were uncomfortable; Swept out bedrooms for fear That the talkative candour of her dislikes Might falter in the presence of dust; And clinked the silver on side-boards In an effort to convince herself That she was still robustly mercenary. Again, she scanned the spots On a bridal-gown and planned, As she had done for years To send it to an imaginary cleaner. |
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