Issue 122, Spring 1992
Human bodies are different from one another
But their souls are all alike, filled with brilliant uses
Do not give me your soul,
Give me your body I shall never know to the end,
Give me the vessel, not the wine.
Stand with me in airports
Where the pain of parting
Is cloaked in fine words,
Where drinks and food are expensive
And men and their fates are cheap.
And a man talks into a telephone
And, from the receiver, his mouth drinks
Grief and love.
Those who cry too
Have white hands like brides.
Arms free from embrace,
What will they do in the world?
Let my soul die with my body.