Bronwen Tate
THREE POEMS FROM YOUR SISTER FACE
THE STEEPLE FROM ALL SIDES
Should I grumble if I am more accurate this morning,
leaving less to be revealed? Rough is rough. Yet the apse is
not an abscess, though both contain. They were crows and
thus fatal. I said “they are beating themselves against the
tower,” and now I must see them gambol and frolic? At the
base of the tower, not vines, but slate. The later picture
piled onto the earlier picture. With what enamel will they
hold together? With what tincture of chemicals will the
image cohere and sear me? A lavaliere is still foreign;
would I wear it?
