The absent touch is my obsession
as one who never touches much,
for what you don’t do much you miss
the more when it is but forbidden.
It fascinates, attracts, repulses –
the parried clutch, the friction seized.
And now the others’ urge to touch
denied in paschal preparation
is clatter-carried on the screen.
It really seems it’s come to this –
for yearned evasion’s dim projection
appears to me but Judas-kiss.