bronwen tate





With slotted spoon, I skim for strange ones. The difference between one I “don’t know” and one I “don’t know at all!” They abound in atmosphere. Here this lady’s mantle shimmers across a background of rough stone. There carved stone forget-me-nots burst out of their church Latin. Forget me not, my little mouse-ears, repressed like newly tatted lace. Unlike sea or horse, a dew pond frosts over in winter.















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