We have an allergy and audiology department. We have a blood processing lab with centrifuge. We have temperature monitored secure drug storage rooms including refrigerated drug storage. We have over 18 exam rooms including an office surgical suite. There are 4 exam rooms with floor or ceiling mounted ENT microscopes. There is one room dedicated to our full time licensed aesthetician and several lasers on site. The practice also owns an outpatient ENT surgery center located next door. Cooper Scurry, Jr. Our Investigators and Sub-Investigators are experienced in clinical research ranging from 1 to over 25 years conducting pharmaceutical trials.
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Our ENT practice has , patients and we have 4 practice locations. The two ophthalmology practices combined have 40, patients seen in the last year. We specialize in recruitment and retention for ENT trials. If you are interested in contacting this center to discuss clinical trials, please complete and send the email form below. A representative from the research center will then follow up with you.
Piedmont Ear, Nose, and Throat Associates. I call for you cultivation of strength to heal and enhance in the non-cheering dark, in the many many mornings-after; in the chalk and choke. Materials for Teachers Materials for Teachers Home. Poems for Kids. Poems for Teens. Lesson Plans. Teach this Poem. Poetry Near You. Academy of American Poets.
National Poetry Month. American Poets Magazine. Poems Find and share the perfect poems. Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children. I have contracted. I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck. I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized Your luck And your lives from your unfinished reach, If I stole your births and your names, Your straight baby tears and your games, Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths, If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths, Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. Though why should I whine, Whine that the crime was other than mine?
Or rather, or instead, You were never made. But that too, I am afraid, Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
Help! I'm Trapped in My Best Friend's Nose
You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried. Believe me, I loved you all. Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All. The Lovers of the Poor arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair, The pink paint on the innocence of fear; Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care, Served by their love, so barbarously fair. Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel! You had better not throw stones upon the wrens! Herein they kiss and coddle and assault Anew and dearly in the innocence With which they baffle nature. Who are full, Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit, Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise. To resurrect.
To moisten with milky chill. To be a random hitching post or plush. To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem. Their guild is giving money to the poor.
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The worthy poor. The very very worthy And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy? Perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim Nor—passionate. In truth, what they could wish Is—something less than derelict or dull.
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Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze! God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold! The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down. But it's all so bad! The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans, Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains, The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told, Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn Darkness, or dirty light.
The soil that stirs. The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
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And for that matter the general oldness. Old Wood. Old marble. Old tile.
Old old old. Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe. Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic, There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no Unkillable infirmity of such A tasteful turn as lately they have left, Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars Must presently restore them. When they're done With dullards and distortions of this fistic Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as Newspaper rugs before! In this, this "flat," Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich Rugs of the morning tattered! Here is a scene for you.