After his Mother’s body died
Roland Barthes
resolved a piece of her survived
in one photograph.

He hunted til he found his paper raft
to clutch,
to rock him through her aftermath,
robbed of touch.

Compulsed@2006, stuck in my hutch
of microchips,
I view pics of you, too much
for cyber kicks.

I surf and click the perfect clip
entirely you:
gentle shrug, quick tendering lip
I fully knew

Your rabbit gaze pops up on cue:
a photograph.
My virtual touch downloads twelve years. Fuse new
I hear you laugh.