Lines on Ettington Park continued

When I was drunk and fingery in a clinch,
Athwart my wife’s flesh with the same reverse-pinch
I use to enlarge things on my iPhone's screen –
Dissolute, nails untrimmed – my eyes were not keen,
Wont to hide as one who feels undeserving;
But now I sit with her in the Great Drawing
Room of the Ettington Park Hotel, where in
Celadon surrounds a strategy to win
Salgado’s painting at auction emerges,
And something inside me reaches out, surges
Out from my temple and into the sour
Air: a child's pronated hand, or art’s power
To reconcile, disincarnate before me,
Limpid, in phase with my own precarity.
Disincarnate art’s power to reconcile,
Is my soul, divested of body, tactile
To your touch? Outside of life and odious
Culture, out of phase with death and Proteus,
You remain a child in perpetuity:
Is your hand an aura, tantalisingly,
Of my own hand, or if lowered, might it feel?
For so long, for so long, I have felt less real,
And now, by your presence, this sense is affirmed:
Have I cheated constant changing patterns termed
Of Proteus forever, or will I go
Back? The intermediary, Salgado,
Shall not suppress what is colourful, nor I
Suppress those sparks in shade cast memetic by
Ong’s arboreal hat that moves bough to bough,
Bowlering. 

On Anna Madia

I love real painters’ fictional paintings, honest galleries on dubious grounds:
Madia’s March Hare, affordable art fair, oil on board, at 14 hundred pounds;
A doily of lace, rowel or monstrance, obscures the face of a man in a field.