Deferred, placed aside, waiting.

The haptic sense of a dream -- my hands are all I need
to know the angles. the right of it, the acute --
to form a shape, abstracted into the concrete
set in stone. I cannot rely on my eyes, they lie
a curtain falls, a blindfold, curling -- this too is a source
of tension, of the obtuseness of senses
but touch is certainty, refutes the wires and wireless
I think therefore I can place my fingers here and
press, gently -- sounding out the way I feel