Whatever touch I had is gone.
Maybe I never had it. That would be better.
One can't throw away a non-belonging.
Can't chase after the dump truck
for some treasure that isn't there.
What if it's the desire for touch?
Now that would be grim. One can debate
its source. Nature vs. nurture, etc.
But to give up smacks of fatalism.
May as well become a prokaryote that
lives inside those who have or want touch.
Then I wouldn't go through the motions
or rue my idle days. Wouldn't think or
be thought of. Wouldn't know my role
in the nutrient cycle. That without me
Earth is just another dead, spinning rock.
At times I labor on a multi-volume ode to
the single-celled organism and all the dumb,
blind building blocks of my wasted genius.
After one broken line, I’m overwhelmed by
buckling walls, by florid mold—an engineer
duty-bound to condemn his half-built home.
