Empire speaks plain, everyday English,
but should the soul not speak to us
in the tongues we learned at home,
in school, in our leisure,
so that we all may be correctly posted
with memos, epistles, and missives
landing at our feet like femmes well tired,
rightly, sufficiently lenient and eased
under parasols from old pointillist paintings
that cut the sun to size and pass it
over the space with a fine hand, neatly gloved?
Imagine a soul so simple, English, plain,
that no one would ever need to look or search
for what she hid, or what she meant.
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