The question is: does the Eiffel Tower
imitate woman, either in a corset
or stripped off all, perhaps except
for some see-through straps and rings?
Or is that Tower there meant to teach
a modern woman how to look when all
else has become history and, once again,
as in the beginning, man and woman
are to be both as well as one—restored,
repaired and, if possible, as tall and lean
as an ancient temple, stern Dorian column
on top of which, with each morning, the sun
can place its bound and golden, girding beam?
From which door and from which window
is the Eiffel best to be thus read and written—
like a woman who steps out to a latticed balcony
and into the view that ties it all back heaven
and heaven back again—to her own figure
laced and floriated with streams of sighs
and sights of ours—as if also made of iron?
For isn’t she the eternal, venerable xoanon,
the piercing obelisk, the palladium-omphalos,
beauty divine briefly grasped in its grasping
that, though ever elusive, does always come
and delivers to its poet—a fresh new print?
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