Body and soul

                In sleep the soul hangs upside down,
                clinging to the body only by its big toe.
                        – Eskimo tradition

Body

Night-march. Something deserts me.
It is hanging by a bone
and snickers like a led horse
docile but doubtful of humans.

This is eclipse. Shadows
make off unobserved, oh,
everywhere – up walls, through walls,
riding sills, circling unlit lampshades.

Only my importunate big toe's
unconsciously vulgar tilt
snags soul like silk: off but not
too easy, and not quite yet.


Soul

Sleep. Have I ever dreamt that
was me – the slavemaster hulk?
Moments of less vigilance
I look for ways out, my own life.
The pinhole in the condom, as they say.
The lip of the mountain lake.
Halfway over, humped silvery
on the crescent ridge, I remember
the valley's form, mine, a life's work.
There has never been anything else.
And my fraying skein crowds back
more than lakes will. Or wings. I alight.