I come with a camera for eyes,
taking snapshots of the body’s lips, hair, legs, torso
saying that my pictures are what is real about this whole ordeal.
I look at the body, touch it, listen to the mouth, making words that I have decided the body can make.
I laugh at moods, I dissect words, I make up my mind about the nature of you and I,
when the true nature hides behind the trees I have foolishly been thinking I planted.
The body is a master of trickery, winking and smiling and dancing
and crying and pretending to be all the things I want it to be – real,
but when the soul leaves the body alone it does not wink or smile or dance.
When the soul leaves, the body is nothing but atoms theorizing their form.
The body does not love you or me, it does not love at all.
Without the soul, the body knows not what it is, what it’s meant for.
I sit in a room, purposefully lined with art and furniture and bookshelves,
and I use my eyes, I use them all up, looking across and up and down,
but I cannot feel anything.
My soul has left my body all alone, to fend for itself in the wild.
I find myself wishing I was blindfolded, so that my body would be as far
away from my reach as feeling.