Left-Handed Lady

			
Disinterest hangs upon her brow
An old book lies open
And a pen works the page in slow,
Strokes as though it were a pin
 
Sewing thought to thought with black thread
Binding fast all she read.
She turns a page with thin finger,
Then retreats to linger
 
Upon a thought that had escaped
With the page’s turning.
A moment longer, it is shaped,
Stung and sutured
 
That all P’s are Q’s, but not all
Q’s are P’s; that assent
Is, in this case, conditional.
That’s what the author meant
 
If and only if,
There is sense to be found.
One needn’t agree with the conclusion:
Premises are masters of illusion.
The form, the vessel of all sense,
Must be more than mere sound.
 
She stops again, unknits her brow.
She closes her old book.
Around she looks, she wonders how
In this light she must look.
 
All her work, all she thought and scratched
Is, to her authors, hitherto unmatched.
If the dead could talk, they would say,
“My love, reading so much will make you grey.
Turn your mind from your silly thoughts.
Never mind these is and oughts.”