On her side, reclining on her elbow.
This mechanism, this apparition,
Suppose we call it Projection A.
 
She floats in air at the level of
The eye, completely anonymous,
Born, as she was, at twenty-one,
 
Without lineage or language, only
The curving of her hip, as motionless gesture,
Eyes dripping blue, so much to learn.
 
If just above her head there hung,
Suspended in air, the slightest crown
Of Gothic prong and practick bright,
 
The suspension, as in solid space,
The suspending hand withdrawn, would be
An invisible gesture. Let this be called
 
Projection B. To get at the thing
Without gestures is to get at it as
Idea. She floats in the contention, the flux
 
Between the thing as idea and
The idea as thing. She is half who made her.
This is the final Projection C.
 
The arrangement contains the desire of
The artist. But one confides in what has no
Concealed creator. One walks easily
 
The unpainted shore, accepts the world
As anything but sculpture. Good-bye
Mrs. Pappadopoulos, and thanks.

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