Touch

We may be too shy
to talk about our private feelings.

Neuroscientists have carried out a meta-analysis
of the brain areas responsible for love and desire.

But even if we could map
the topography of love and desire,
what would be the point?

As a line attributed to Walt Whitman says:
your facts are useful,
and yet they are not my dwelling.

Even if we had gone to the moon
and photographed its cratered topography,
would the legends of the lunar palace and Chang’e
become irrelevant?

Can we really understand
why a momentary contact makes the heart race,
leaves the mouth without words,
and makes the head bow in shyness?

Why can a moment of joining
feel like several centuries?

The answer should start with skin
and end with love and art.

At that time I practised Bach all day.
My left hand became sensitive.

It was as if the church-like holiness of Bach,
and the feeling of love,
could be touched directly
by holding the vibration of a string
under the fingertips of my left hand.

I said to him:

You look like the beautiful young man
a poet would fall in love with.

It is thrilling
when I touch your dreamy eyes
and rosy lips.