Argument of Incorporeality

By | 1 December 2022

Through the mist-aproned mountain,
wind blows a gate open.

Years that don’t belong to me
flood my palms like coins too heavy
to hold. Memories—time’s avalanche
sweeping the mountainside of the mind.

In my naked namelessness, I lie down
in the spring snow. The contours of my senses
dissolve in the coldness
like sugar on a fevered tongue.

Slowly, the wind in the mountain assumes
the gate’s unwanted shape
the way a soul first tries on a body: testing
its limits before suffusing it, before
surrendering itself wholly to a fixed form.

I miss not having a body, or rather
that illusion of absolute freedom,
of not having to indulge
the body’s stringent longings.

What is nostalgia if not the oldest hunger
you can no longer return to—that sliver
of clear sky that each falling flake of snow
holds within, unwounded by masts or wings?

The wind tries to close the gate
but the gate refuses closure.

A pain, when touched, shines in the dark.

The wind is no longer what it was.

The mountain remains the mountain.

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