Another Sort of Soul

We’re told by some the soul

is perfect and unchanging –

a flame lit by a god. But surely

souls or gods like that would

never last for long in Universes

whose variety is infinite –

for whom no plausible satiety

can therefore be imagined.

I think my soul is of another sort.

I think it sports with other passing

evanescences like it, which

flit and swoop and sometimes

flap upon a lap or hip and stay

a while. What they talk

about might make us smile,

or not: fraternity’s eternity –

or existential conjugations

of beget, begat, begot.





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