a poem for Sunday

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To be in any form, what is that?

If nothing lay more developed the quahaug and its callous shell were enough.

 

Mine is no callous shell,

I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,

They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

 

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,

To touch my person to some one else’s is about as much as I can stand.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (27)

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