Three perfect touches at each distance
A small ambition
Three, and three is six,
And three is nine, and three is twelve—perfection, bliss.
But building touch on touch is like balancing
A stack of cups, a house of cards
Each next one less stable than the last
And tension rises as I near the twelfth
As if it mattered
As if it had significance, and weight
But why? The end is not an end
This a circle, not a line
I touch the twelfth,
Step close, and start the round again
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Every touch is itself, not connected to the previous one, nor determining the one that follows. It is only our mind that senses a connection. And yet, why would we seek the touch at all if it did not connect us to the universe in its perfection?
ReplyDelete