Poets argue about the word soul. Some use it
every day, some refuse to, others
have switched to writing fiction
or driving a bus. Much of what I think of as me
isn’t. The shadow of my left arm. My preference
for one cup of coffee in the same blue cup.
The essence of a thing ranges from a smirk
to a blueprint to a jet engine, and that’s
just Heaven. The presence of World War I
in Jean Follain’s poetry
just became clear to me during the break
between writing the last two sentences.
See, while I write, I also read, and while I read,
I also listen to rain assault the roof,
and while I swim, I drown, and while I fall,
I look like a shirt on a clothesline
letting go of the wind. Late, walking around
with my eyes open inside the night’s closed eye,
I feel hugged, like the shawl of blackness
was woven to hold only me. Woven or knit,
I don’t know. But it has holes in it called stars.