Holding the glorious heap of her black hair
away from her head for the heat,
the tall, young, I’m guessing Italian woman
swivels her slender torso with such a sweet
nonchalance that the no less glorious
clump at her armpit is rendered unignorable.
Degas might have done a sketch then and there,
and Hardy was a man who used to notice such things;
but that was the nineteenth century, and to do so now
would be deplorable.
