It is wonderful indeed, I suppose
To see such peach-flesh remain so unbruised
By the hard stares of so many angry loins.
Yet still more wonderful, so I suppose,
That the stone within be too liquid by far
To maintain a position, as anatomists will tell us.

But should we thank or reproach
Whoever it was who first
Assembled anonymous shards
Of coloured glass into a 
Kaleidoscope's fickle message,
For the enchanting frustrations
He offered wandering spirits?
How should we then view
Her myriad and mosaic minds?

Better that I should decline to dabble in Freud's dubious calling
Until that cauldron cools to the hazy certitude of a first meeting,
Which, having happened, cannot now happen, blessedly perhaps.

We should be happy, or I must suppose,
To dance in her random footprints,
Catching kisses of bouncing smiling hair
In crystal jars, to exorcise
Those gaunt wraiths of depression
Which rant and claw with contagion.

So I suppose to suppose,
I, who am cured by merely the thought.