Consoling Thought
Forget the soul. Inhabitants of you
And me are actually our blood and bones,
The bones that make our blood and strength, the true
Red blood that bathes our brains and carries moans
From it to lung and throat. Our hidden parts
Are our essential selves. The organs skin
Conceals–our wombs and testicles, our hearts–
These occult, secret things are close blood kin
To what religions so presumptuously
Call Spirit–though that doesn’t exist. So
Our inner cavities, veins sumptuously
Provided, are filled full by rut’s dark glow.
We’ve plenty there for marrow to endow.
There isn’t room for soul stuff anyhow.