Bruce reads the poems of Tennyson,
a half inch from her ear,
careful, slow, but exalted nevertheless,
so she'll feel the presence of the poem
like he feels her presence,
in him, in his voice,
and she smiles warm but awkwardly
like she's The Lady of Shallot
hearing about herself for the
very first time.
Why Tennyson, that long dead Englishman,
and musty on the page.
For "she weaveth steadily
and little other care hath she."
And Bruce is not about
to tell her that.