Bored to Choresis

Inert and in the twilight... Peace is not hers.
The fireflies blink,  there being no man,
To observe the ritual of her lips -
Autonomous and Polynesian.

With sighs more lunar than bronchial,
Howbeit eluding fallopian diagnosis,
She simpers into the tribal library and reads
That Keats died of tuberculosis...

Furthermore Keats knew no Greek
Yet was exalted somewhat on Shelley’s windy tongue:
What absorbs the girl is the fact
That John, like other mortals, had a lung.

Well, it’s time to dress for the dance!
More civilized than merely discursive Man,
Her rhythms are reptilian and religious,
Choreographic and Polynesian.

Allen Tate