THAT WHICH I TOUCH HAS NO NAME is dialogic, an attempt to unearth the equilibrium between the blank page and the self in urban and rural places. This multilingual, polyphonic book is an inking, a verbal construction, gnawing away at its own predecessors, at the way we read, and at language itself. It asks: ìWhat holds up, contains, structures, leaks out of our pages, our selves?î The singularity of plural experience, and the plurality of singular experience, infuse and are infused by these dazzling, shape—shifting pages.Poetry.