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If I call it pain, and try to touch it With my hands, my own life, It lies still and the music thins, A pulse felt for through garments.

Tracy K. Smith
Pain, Lying, Hands
Tracy K. Smith (2007). “Duende: Poems”, Graywolf Press
If I call it pain, and try to touch it With my hands, my own life, It lies still and the music thins, A pulse felt for through garments.