Cold and metalline, the soul was mined from rocks, became

thin wire that keeps the colors in this enameled jewel from

bleeding. The soul remembers old pacts, yields to the demands of all

lifetimes, sways in the style of windblown lindens and other

greens. Hammered, the soul is a container: yellow watering

can that pours a body into the base of a lime tree at the hour 

of death. My soul looks like a lock of red hair bound by purple

thread. Marine-scented, my soul is contained: Atlantic sand

inside an hourglass. But somebody holds a portion of it. He

is an oyster enclosing one grain. My soul tastes like a lilac

branch rubbing against the rusty corrugated shed on a humid

day. And so I shake when he gets off the train. Sharp, the soul