A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

	They mouth love's language. Gnash
	The thirteen teeth
	Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
	Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
	Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
	As sour as cat's breath,
	Harsh of tongue.

	This grey that stares
	Lies not, stark skin and bone.
	Leave greasy lips their kissing. None
	Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
	Dire hunger holds his hour.
	Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
	Pluck and devour!


Note: It "draws directly upon Joyce's involvement with the Zurich-based amateur theatrical company, the English Players, during World War I." (Fargnoli and Gillespie)

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