touch gallery

and months later he goes to a touch gallery, a real one, he spills his heart into his fingertips, he touches the clay faces, it rains outside the gallery, many cities away I feel his hands on my face, and I weep with all that retained strength.

true story




the power is worth billions of metaphors, all of them count, and here is one more: every drop squeezed out from the American fog, landing on your face as you leave, is my thank you note