Wednesday, June 24, 2015


Unborn souls repose
in pods of three –
sleep snug together,

spoon-like, separated
by a straining membrane
pink as muscle

or a womb, leaving
precious little room
for intervention.

This explains the blunt
invention of the trinity:
the taste we have for

father, son, and holy ghost;
or ego, id, and superego;
butter, syrup and French toast –

transformation through
a triad toward the mind-
and-body dyad of the monad

we call what we think
we are: that singularity
of ‘me.’ But triplets

are how we begin to go.
We thought you’d
like to know.


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