She knows not if she wishes to be the sexual
The soundless oiled workings of machine
In a harmonious symbiosis
Cared for and watched and scraped mechanic-clean
Or rather, a page-churning intellectual--

Indeed, it appears a futile choice to make
When even bluest stockings seem obscene.
I am no closer to a useful prognosis--
(And not because my instruments are mean)
--Except to say, there's so much of her to take.

There is but one chief question I could pose,
Impaled on pen, provocatively betrothed,
If given a choice, which, then, would you suppose:
Do you want to be seen, or read, or both?