we should by now
have created a much stronger vessel
for the art, the love, the passions, the anxiety,
the emotions and the creativity of the body
and the mind--
the soul is such a weak mold,
the clay from the bottom of the pit,
a lump of molten sand that refuses to become glass.
we should by now
have invented a stronger bowl,
an urn of iron or bronze or quartz,
a valley for the body's belongings and
the mind's wanderings.
the cupped hands of the soul
cannot contain the ache of absolute exhaustion,
crack at the mere mention of rest.