2Touch

"Dreamer," they called me,
but I never knew if that was
a curse or a blessing.
While dream can perfect reality,
I always wanted a denser
feel to my life, with electrons
closer together than thought,
my fingers able to touch and stroke
the weft of the illusion,
to test its strength
and appreciate its weight.

I have traveled around the world
to roads I have never seen
but until I breathe their dust
and absorb their reflected heat,
I won't know them:
instead, they remain pretty fables
in the web of my imagination,
insubstantial as a dream.

Assorted bits and bytes
on the software of the soul
with no hyperlink to the hardware body,
no known source of power,
conversations that never occurred
confront me, pretenders to memory,
insubstantial as a whisper,
urging me to question all I have
believed and hoped to be true.

Impossible operas, intricate
contrapuntal chants, jazz riffs,
sentimental pop ballads
lure me down passageways
and lean with me against
the rough walls of medieval churches
I have never explored,
the scent of thyme crushed
beneath my feet that never
trod the square paving stones
of a fresh garden path
laid centuries ago
as post-millennial choirs
direct my vision miles above
the blue planet's curve and tilt.

This voyage is insufficient.

I remain unsatisfied by wonder,
unmoved by cloud nebulas,
asteroid collisions or evidence
supporting quantum physics.

I will accept the ocean sound
of more than one
into my auditory range
if you will walk toward me
on bare feet and without hesitation,
if you will expand your collected
molecular aura to embrace me,
if you will fashion a poem from
our combined scents,
if you will laugh at the audacity
of prime numbers,
if you will see me
before sheer centrifugal force
propels me beyond your orbit.

I come to you
in a body that is finite
and losing strength,
fearing the loss of beauty's alliance,
but wanting no less to touch you.


Copyright 2001 by Karen Thompson
previously published in Amrita

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