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Touch

The edge that curls towards the shore of skin
Broadcasts, frontier-like, two politics
Of isolation. A soft-split cliff, prim,
smoothed to the scalp with a vast dictator’s grip
Seems to say that time is out of mind
And you are out of touch. What mission now
Could spread its loving gospels, loving lines
Through those martyrs lines, their straitened show?
Should I, the diplomat of words extend,
A finger under this, your secret seal?
Would this, a tiny counterpoint of touch, mend
Or widen gaps? As the blind man feels
His way, I’ll read you as if sensitive to braille-
Like dips and swells in all your hairline charts.
Tie back your choking hair and I will try
And rub salt grains in your austere, unflinching eye.

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