A touch is made to lamé
With blade épée,
One’s mettle to assay;
Or for swordplay.
Another is to allay
The dread of possible fey—
A rope, not frayed,
A climber to belay.
One touch doth bewray
An attitude blasé
Toward fine bouchée
Or rich pâté
To one’s dismay,
A touch someday
Arises from sashay,
Dress, not step, soigné.
You may find it cliché,
Often child’s play:
A touch to parlay
One browsing goods you purvey.
And though it lacks visé,
This is no hearsay:
Loving touché
Alive through envié,
Becomes not forté
But Woodsman’s wedge doth convey;
On a line partway
Betwixt foray and force play.
Intended to assert revendiqué,
Yet with gentle touché,
A chasm généré
Between source and marqué.
© 2016 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 