Embossed with flowers, from a factory,
Comes this white, mass-produced piece of tissue.
Its original is past memory,
Unknown the drawing hand of its issue.
[Make transition to “original” smoother]
And yet, one might venture a conjecture
By the copy yet dully pressed thereon.
For it seems, itself, a pattern of nature:
Maternal, toward breathing life ever drawn.
It is, then, with irony, a product
Of nature, a static reproduction,
Of an image whose issue may conduct
To reverie or to further consumption
And as this artifice evokes a memory,
We want life, we use a commodity.