Tuesday, August 24, 2021


It's been said 
that the soul 
is shaped by its seclusion,

its desire for
tight junctures, its fetish 
for their rigor—

as such, it has commanded  
you too
to be stiff;

it has bid you to insist 
on silence 
in the library 

and coerced you to stick 
to reading classics 
of the literature.

But the truth is, 
this is a bit 
of a misapprehension; 

for whenever you 
look, what you see inside 
is edgeless, 

indivisible—and so, 

the best way 
to truly comprehend it
might be to dirty it, 

rough it up, 
abuse it, call it 
stupid now and then.

Only then, 
when it reddens, 
swells up, and 

begins to accuse you,
may you circuitously 
measure it—

all the while, of course,
to keep your soul

at arm's length
and pay it 
no attention.