People touch people in some
free-form folding of lives,
briefly, changing shapes,
always re-emerging against
new sides, blending like
figures on a screen, always
in motion, changing colors,
signifying some never-ending
continuum, floating in a
liquid teeming with
possibility, sliding
into each other, skin to
skin for the length of a
second.  Touch is the
brush of friends
at anchor.


Caroline Shank