With a metaphor’s
soft fluidity,
one replaces
an other
granting grace
as a form
of explanation.
I breathe;
trees breathe.
Air flows
between
shadow and light.
One to one—
not quite,
but enough.
I mistrust the soul
as a concept
of consciousness.
Not as is said:
a soul with a body,
or a body with a soul,
but some sense
separate from sense,
a constant desire
to set markers,
like a small asterisk
in a dense text
to divert the eye
along the bottom
of the page
like a river
we must cross
to finally arrive home.
Except, all is water;
and, there are no bridges.
(July 27, 2025)
subtext 