text mode CrossConnect previous next

Home
Issue Contents
Contributors
E-mail Us
   l a c e

---   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.


© crossconnect 1995-2000 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |