I can’t imagine anything
   that I would less like to be
than a disincarnate Spirit,
   unable to chew or sip
or make contact with surfaces
   or breathe the scents of summer
or comprehend speech and music
   or gaze at what lies beyond.
No, God has placed me exactly
   where I’d have chosen to be:
the sub-lunar world is such fun,
   where Man is male or female
and gives Proper Names to all things.

I can, however, conceive
that the organs Nature gave Me,
   my ductless glands, for instance,
slaving twenty-four hours a day
   with no show of resentment
to gratify Me, their Master,
   and keep Me in decent shape
(not that I give them their orders,
   I wouldn’t know what to yell),
dream of another existence
   than that they have known so far:
yes, it well could be that my Flesh
   is praying for ‘Him’ to die,
so setting Her free to become
   irresponsible Matter.

This Issue

November 1, 1973