POEM: Contact Tracer

Nothing is graceful in my walk.

I have all the poise of a dumpster.

But then I never spent much time on appearances.

Instead, I spend my time overcoming absence  so that

I lose sight of the ease in enjoyment.

What I wouldn’t give to set up a tent and dwell in the cave of my own voice!

Thank God for the silence that feels like ice, 

that breaks this sandpaper world,

So that I find peace in the clicking of a tongue,

Or the battering of a glottis, or the thrum of vocal chords

that align with the hum of a friendly world every once in a while.

Listening, say, to a poem read aloud,

a silent well surges within pulling at the liquid parts of me,

finding, at long last, ease.

Instead, before you, I flap my arms and with arched back, I

reach for the contact who has touched me and whom I touch, with

Invisible lines, made by the single clarity of moonlight that as a

god I could never imagine.