Touch
TOUCH
To touch to touch
is all there is, all there ever was. Yet we are made afraid, dis
trust what is most to us, spend
so much of what could have been
love, constructing an excuse for it, some
permissible context, some name, until
what is love is
not love is
no longer even rememberable, not song, but
more like a dove sound, like
that, that pressing of air on the throat.
And we are smothered by it, are
too much alone. Our song
is skin, we must sing,
must touch, it
is time.
David Franks
Article
Subjects
Freeing John Sinclair
Old News
Ann Arbor Sun