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And I say this Who lies with open eyes upon the pavement Can you hurt her? Tread on those frightened eyes Why should it frighten her to die? This is a fault This is a fault in which I have a part.


The Body in Asia Despite the mountains at my doorstep This is a hollow, hollow life. The mist blows clear and shows the snow Among the dark green firs, but here Upon the cold, scorched, dusty grass The camels looped together raise Their supercilious noses. Upon the road the donkeys trot And mule-teams with their muleteers pace. The country lies before me like A map I carry in my mind – A wall built by the Hindu Kush A plain that falls away to sea I on the foothills here between Sniffing the cold and dusty air. Too long of longing makes me cold The heart a tight and burning fistful Hangs like a cold sun in my chest A hollow kind of firmament.

I can imagine my exterior The body, and the limbs that run off from it But there is nothing in it I am sure Except the ball of heart that weighs one side Like the lead ballast in a celluloid duck. And in my head a quarter-incher’s brain Looks out as best it can from my two eyes: It can imagine how the country lies To left and right, extensions of the limbs

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