the cult of the ideal woman.
silent era mignon.
pass the baton.
a little diplomacy.
a little electricity.
and a waterfall of curls.
she moves with the fayre.
I see her idling on Fifth Avenue
and at work behind the counters
of the stores.
besotted men plant young, leafless trees upside-down,
roots in the air, simply because
she wants it that way.
a groundbreaking end
to The Broken Oath,
and her name on the credits
for the very first time.
screens, fans, and umbrella stands.
or maybe lilies in a field of seclusion.
she is stardom.
she is the eternal question.