| Philippa Susanna Jolley's Den of Iniquity | |||||||||||||||||
| You don't send me flowers anymore. | In fact you never did. | ||||||||||||||||
| Stephen Spender | |||||||||||||||||
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When we talk, I imagine silence Beyond the intervalling words: a space Empty of all but ourselves there, face to face, Away from others, alone in the intense Light or dark, it would not matter which. But where a room envelopes us, one heart, Our bodies, locked together, prove apart Unless we change them back again to speech. Close to you here, looking at you, I see Beyond your eyes looking back, that second you Of whom the outward semblence is the image- The inward being where the name springs true. Today, left only with a name, I rage, Willing these lines- willing a name to be Flesh, on the blank unanswering page. | |||||||||||||||||
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