Now put your hand there.
Can you feel my existance? You can't?
Wait, let me get ready.
Now,out your hand here; can't you feel my existance?
No?
In your eyes congenitally blind,
There's only blunder and darkness.
Not that,that's hair.
These are my fingers. Touch now-oh no! No!
Not that-that's my Adam's apple,
the sculptural work of an artist
who believed in swalliwing hemlock.
That is not fire, that's me, my manhood.
Cut off just a little below happiness,
a lover's headless body of pain-
what are you looking for in there?
That's nothing-that's sorrow.
Bearing marks of unrequitted love of women, that is a river.
On the grass, where it's been black-and-blued,
just on the right side it, there-put your hand.
Yes, that is the breast. Keep your hand there.
That's where the heart is.
That's where the love dwels,
That's where memory, joy,and the whole symphony of love dwell.
There was love in that heart, there was memory,
there was everything, only you didn't dwell there.
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