Tactile 

“The longing to touch…I feel gratitude when I touch someone 

— as well as affection etc. The person has allowed me proof 

that I have a body — and that there are bodies in the world. 

— Susan Sontag, 

from As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980 

Whispers rip open 

                              the language of hands 

that once claimed loving shoulders — 

                              subliminal in liquid air. 

Image after image  

                              we crucify hunger. 

Arms fixed upon bodies, 

                              bodies that never break upon a hug. 

Years unloosen into a roar of emoticons. 

                             ‘Cancel Culture’ handcuffs ‘Movements’ 

to a mere clamour on decency. 

                              In solidarity, we pour hemlock 

down the jagged alleys of imagination — 

                             beauty slips from the hand of God. 

Art is anointed, 

                            a candidate up for sainthood. 

The artist becomes time’s fool 

                             singing moral monologues 

on monks who war behind a curtain of Tweets, their eyes crawl within fringes — 

                             to add a name to a face, to break a perfect wall.  Storms brew along the bend, 

they do not communicate rain. 

                             Parched eyes bury oxytocin, 

block by block. Fearful, sceptic hearts — 

                             too formal to earn a heart-beat, 

too kindled to embrace 

                            the sweet affection of skin and salt.