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As A Shipwreck Having Seen
An Approaching Vessel

Bronwen Tate

Watch it disappear. Your incarnadine embers, my habit of holding a cup of tea on my lap with mixed results. Your doubts of the incarnation, my librettos of chaff. Rustle of leaves, babbling of a brook, and my prattle all do something to the silence. Enthusiasts of bezique can still be found. I plead with you for another notch, a morning’s pluck, a grain or shadow in the pause. But I do not say it. Beforehand, one had to be raw to be believed. Mariner, pilot that heave. Oh cheeks, embody that crimson.

Bronwen Tate

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