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So much of what we live goes on insideโ/
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches/
Of unacknowledged love are no less real/
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal/
Is always more than what we dare confide./
Think of the letters that we write our dead./
Dana Gioia
Posted by Jonathan on December 26, 2010 09:55 AM | Permalink
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