--- 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 |