Only a woman’s hair, he kept repeating,
Proving that erudition didn’t work.
Precedent wasn’t a cure; it wasn’t then,
And repetition didn’t make it so.
And anyway, the dresses weren’t. The shoes,
The winter coats. Or little socks. A hair,
Now that was synecdoche, which, it was known,
Couldn’t be traded on the heart’s exchange
For love or money, blood or Latin verse.
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