not locus if you will but envelope
I feel your whisper’s touch- which is absurd;
all talk is parallel, it has no end.
We never meet, imprisoned in our words.
We are oblique; our passions pass unheard
above the chatter, all we comprehend.
I feel your whisper’s touch, which is absurd.
Hear the deceit in confidences shared,
the distances, the partners that pretend;
we never meet, imprisoned in our words.
All our untruths, spoken or inferred,
form fortresses, a wailing wall. Deafened,
I hear your whisper’s touch- which is absurd.
And yet, and yet. Perhaps my space is curved,
the dumb can utter, brittle silence bend;
we never meet, imprisoned in our words.
Complicating, splendid, undeserved,
this language speaks to me of ladders, and
I feel your whisper’s touch (which is absurd,
we never meet) imprisoned in your words.
Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 