Monday, 9 August 2010


Touch is missing from the portrait of us,
Strictly reserved for up close and personal,

But feeling,
Ah, now this can be accommodated,
Even by the cold mistress of distance;

A mixture of pictures
And sounds,
And occasional perfumes sent for special events,
Create a shape
That can be extruded through the portals
That separate our places.

Screens and phones and lip laced cards,
Arranged in thought’s bullring,
Are linking sentence to sense
Until centred
And leant on for comfort,

And then the fullness of you
And unkempt length of me excrete
Their meaning,

And what is felt
Is identity enough to
Console until we’re put within
Each other’s hold

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