“The intellect of man is forced to choose
  perfection of the life or of the work.”
 — Yeats, “The Choice”

The intellect of woman must not choose
perfection of the life, or of the work.
Perfection has a diamond for a muse
who scratches where she only needs to look.

And yet the intellect of woman fears
imperfection’s lonely grandeur where the sharp
delight of knowing presses through her ears,
the blade’s edge cuts her vision through the dark.

So the intellect of woman will not mind
some scratches where the diamond’s edge has moved.
Perfection’s habit opens us to find
cuts in a window we have never loved.

First collected in Calendars (Tupelo Press, 2003, second edition with CD, 2008).