Biology of the Soul

Subway rushes through a tunnel – banging –
swinging – gleaming – hot – like blood cells
streaming through an artery – the start of me
careens into the endless muddle of a middle –
tastes like metal – copper – iron: sanguine –
sharp – a horse’s bit – I bite down hard on it –
and race – keep up the pace – conjoin

corpuscularly, muscularly with whatever other
cellularly het-up creatures whomp against
and through this place – completely lacking
grace – until the track becomes the train –
and gains – speeds somewhere round a bend –
and honey, it’s the end. I would tell you more
about my friend and our re-membered hearts

and all the arts and odd abandonments
and blandishments of our remarkably resilient
love but all of it too urgently proceeds toward,
below, above the light which funnels, spirals,
draws – sucks us closer into something’s jaws.
Soul biology concerns the certainty of dying –
but if I told you that I liked it, I'd be lying.