There is this photo 
             of Marianne Moore	
                    beside
a pony in Greenwich Village	
             that like a 
       nun fingering beads I thumb
                    to at odd hours
       to contemplate her
              wide smile not yet set
                   beneath 
the trifold hat, but imprisoned	
              only by 
        those hard enjambments and 
                   her mother, whom 
        Bishop loathed. But no 
              matter how much I 
                   want to 
pity her, that smile reminds me 
              only that 
       we make our own prisons
                   and then love them.
# # #
Photo: Thomas Ulrich