She wasn't an idea nor a map
of etymologies, geographies
confused. She wasn't in a word or name
for anything, she wasn't found in paint
in a museum. I have looked through many
dictionaries and encyclopedia
without a trace of her. I'd only thought
that once I'd apprehended the vague none
she is. Yet now I search no longer in
the crooked tomes, perverse and vulgar sound
of narratives for her. Within my heart
no ideal will suffice, no little poem
contains the virtue of her watery eye
gazing upon me from beyond the text.
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