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Like Bad News Known Sooner Abroad

Bronwen Tate

At home in her face. Lace, like the first frost, visits iron work and the very thin pancake, as well as my patience, thin traveling thread. She brought to the marriage a large gourde, a blunder, in short, nothing at all. Adumbrate those flighty ways. First a liveliness in the cheeks, and then a song like an elevated bridge obscured by fog. Leading into fog. I muzzle my boorish inclinations, hobble my stride. I am here where the lace wears thin. I am embittered like Campari, sweetened by red vermouth.

Bronwen Tate

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