I can see the machinations
And us,
Twisted round your tiny fingers.
In the soft light of the afternoon
Your talcum smeared chest heaves
With each gentle parting of your lips
That utter lie
Upon lie.
Baby,
Who never cries when no one is looking
Hymns in church in little frocks.
1 comment:
I'm not sure if this would qualify as a conceit, but it's ingenious enough to confuse feeling.
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