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---   A N D R E W   S H I E L D S  

To our reflections
the tiny border or rim of
her world is red now.
In their inside-out coats, they run
through the octaves of all
the scales in all the keys,
open their scores to discover
roses, roses, roses.
We ponder what she must be 
thinking: where there is red,
no pew is empty after they
fall to pieces. She is not
a precious metal -- when you 
remove the lace she wears,
the core of her self is tin, nothing
but a letter.

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