Sometimes one sees a woman

who is the woman a man chose.

He loves her. She is nothing

herself. Goes where he goes.

One looks at her, but back

quickly at him. What is he?

Other than we thought, if

this, if love is this she.

But his look is almost

dazzled, so tight. She, sun,

was at first too bright to

face, yet it can be done.

Does his looking change her

to his look, she being his?

She is as at first, nothing.

She is what she is.

He is a man wholly what he is:

valuable, being human.

Real. Outshining. A man

who knows nothing about women.