They choose silence, their petalsheld like tongues. Their stemsentangled, some are broken, otherssick with their own stiffness, theirown oily fragrance, with the swaycreated by the chancel fan and withthe white noise of the nave. Theydeny their own violence, opinionsfixed in pink. But finally one breaksthrough even her own infernal silence,won’t, in fact, shut up. She calls out tothe others boldly, Beatrice of the vase.
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