Prepared to pass, we silently co-calibrate to preserve a buffer.
Well-practiced in this ballet,
all of us are experts now in judging boundaries,
conjuring a compulsory cushion.
The look in her eyes, simmering terror, mild revulsion, with
her hand curled into something resembling a reciprocal wave.
We retreat from physical experience into virtual compartments.
still craving collective closeness;
A kiss, pat, hug, high five, nuzzle, grind, lean in, close talk, whisper,
Or an embrace, an exhalation, a handshake –
the difference between a hundred lives and deaths; a game played out on
a microscopic field, incommensurable with our sense of self
This stillness a profound ask.
This social distance, a melancholy contradiction –
a phrase that cannot contain itself.
You – are a threat. We – exist, alone, together
The static nature of despair
The contours of reality flowing through a compression filter.
A virtual panopticon.
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(Adapted from an article, ‘I Sing the Body Collective’ by Reif Larsen in The Harvard Review)