Definition of the Soul: after Pasternak

The attempt to separate my spirit from yours

is like wringing without a handkerchief

wet from something spilled.

I remember the burned-down house

where a wreath still hung upon the door,

a wreath, stone-white, to our surprise,

useless, forlorn, like a life-preserver

nailed to the shore's churning rubble

You said the flames went not on somewhere,

strengthened, more vile than at any time

perhaps seeking a child's crib.

When speeding tires loft street-water

onto your dres I admired in what way you....

And afterward, I brushed your hair,

as you lay dozong upon the couch,

your lower lip, a finished promising V.

The attempt to separate my mind from yours

is like the creaking of a lamppost

against a sapling in the wind.

Soon someone will tend hitherward

and hack through the more fragile single

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 1998

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