By CONSTANCE MERRITT
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Extra info for A Protocol for Touch (Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry, 7)
The sky is the Lord's We do not breach its distance The water is the Lord's We do not soil its skin The children are the Lord's We lay not our hands upon them The mountains are the Lord's We suffer them to stand. The rain is the Lord's The wheat waits to receive it The wind is the Lord's The trees lift up their arms The roses are the Lord's The world's thorns cannot harm us When History's wet nurses Wrap the world for Him. ' should you touch "Someone without intent, and keep in touch Exactly, when beyond the reach of hands.
Solace Page 73 And shock of almost any touch; voices. The heart's insistent undersong: how live? how live? I'd listen Even if you whispered, strain my ears to hear The way I silence other voices. I told you of the child.
I could have been an orphan Father dead and mother fled aboard Some Greyhound bus to parts unknown But Dad was fine except one kidney lost, And Mom made bail and later, charges dropped, And everyone survived no worse for wear; Broke bread, fought fights, lived on, forgave, forgot. Page 53 Debriefing After I got shot I died on the table, Heard them say: he's gone. Scared? Just Came on back. <><><><><><><><><><><><> Come here, let me show you. Right here, under This here rug; it'll be right here.
A Protocol for Touch (Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry, 7) by CONSTANCE MERRITT