Aching

Aching

Aching

If I could just
catch the man falling
there, so high, so tiny

if I could just
push my hand through the screen
into the burning city

I’d be bleeding, he’d be screaming,
the terror would be real
inside, here

there’s smoke and ash pushing against the glass
trying to reach me –

Or if I come outside,
lie down in the wet grass until my skin shivers,
smell the green night rubbing my cheeks

if in the sky over Refrontolo
a satellite can find me, take my picture,
show it to the people in New York

who’ll lean towards their screens fascinated, aching
through this distance –

    *

In Frankfurt I stand one arm’s length
from a woman on display
and in my chest a burning grows
that I mistake for sadness and then recognise as shame.

No-one should come this close
even to the bronze and oil paint simulacrum of a moment
of such detailed inwardness. Every fold and freckle of her sagging face
stands still for me to catalogue. This pain cracking my heart open

is the artist’s trick. He’s pushed me through the screen.
The woman’s eyes refuse mine, her lips stay closed.
The words that name me come out of my own mouth:
Housebreaker. Violator. Thief.

    *

Don’t stare, it’s rude.
And empathy is rape.
And kindness is, like hunger, loss of self.

What is the right distance for touching?

They say if you want a dog to come to you
stand still, don’t run towards it, calling.

And when it comes?