Scooped-
up tight
and rescued—ice-
cold
from a rippling
but mellow silver pool;
this—
must be what
my soul
really looks like—a perfectly
strange and
empty
kind of fullness
for a flash of a second—
oblique and expunged
of all
but the most personal
of pronouns—
the most beautiful
of all
the beauties
alone reflects back
up at me—here in the shallow
hollow of my
cupped wet hand.