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Read more. - the William Alanson White Institute

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TOUCH MESummer is late, my heart.Words plucked out of <strong>the</strong> airsome forty years agowhen I was wild with loveand torn almost in twoscatter like leaves this nightof whistling wind and rain.It is my heart that's late,it is my song that's flown.Outdoors all afternoonunder a gunmetal skystaking my garden down,I kneeled to <strong>the</strong> crickets trillingunderfoot as if aboutto burst from <strong>the</strong>ir crusty shells;and like a child againmarveled to hear so clearand brave a music pourfrom such a small machine.What makes <strong>the</strong> engine go?Desire, desire, desire.The longing for <strong>the</strong> dancestirs in <strong>the</strong> buried life.One season only,and it's done.So let <strong>the</strong> battered old willowthrash against <strong>the</strong> windowpanesand <strong>the</strong> house timbers creak.Darling, do you remember<strong>the</strong> man you married? Touch me,remind me who I am.—Stanley Kunitz© 1995 by Stanley Kunitzfrom Passing Through:The Later Poems, New and SelectedW. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

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