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,
smooth,
transparent,
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—
pretending
all the while, of course,
to keep your soul
at arm's length
and pay it
no attention.
