NON-OVERLAPPING MAGISTERIA

My soul is

a stupid but dutiful

little 

machine—eating

both—

poison 

and nourishing 

things indiscriminately—mincing, dousing, burning, 

gassing—

and spitting them 

up again

in the foamier color-

less form of
ideas, in a desperately

reflexive attempt 

to purge

itself of all experiences;
except

for one—which is already 

so pure,

so indivisible,

so empty—as white 

light is—that it

simply refuses 

to break 

down any further;

the greatest mystery—

weightless,

but thick

with the heavy warmth 

of its 

own sacredness—of how

I would have 

likely been fine

all this time

without you,

but never 

can doubt 

you, now

that I wasn't.