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What's left to say?
I have food, two
eyes, fingertips, pink
roses and a yard
full of birds.
What do people matter
with their words, words, words?
The human heart is invisible
in its cave of blood.
It's nothing like the earth
with its hospitals of trees,
nothing like the stars and seas
spreading harmonies.
I have a candle, a piano, a pan
full of paints.
What is this need to touch
another's hand?
What is this beating emptiness?