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 conjugationsof beget, begat, begot.