Letter to the Body
If only you were the pure self,
we would not have to bargain or pray,
offer up good deeds for relief of pain, or
apologies for spasms and expectorations.
The cells could absorb and discharge at leisure.
Whatever waste washes ashore in the brain
or in the heart, would, without shame,
increase the one being. No struggle to justify,
no explaining we’re really much better
than our hunched back, our protuberances,
just the material presence, occupying space,
insular and detaching, floating away
for a day on the sea’s silver face, returning
to endless pleasures of the anatomy.
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