Confused Dream

You have all the books that lay around my bed
around yours, too. I must have told you about them.
The Orphic Voice is there. It makes sense because
that’s your field, too. There’s no reason to hate
science anymore. Look what it’s done to itself.
Look where it’s obsessions have led it. Isolation,
outside the life it studies. Our souls tremble in the cleft,.
The teacher, the poet asks, “What is this word, SOUL?
It’s awfully empty.” How can the teacher, how can the poet
ask this? Don’t they know the soul can’t be over used,
it’s authenticity can’t be questioned. How can the poet
question himself when he goes to write the word: Soul.
The soul is not a cliche. Just because you use that word
doesn’t mean you are an empty romantic. Think
of the words that become their opposites. Words
drained of meaning and left like empty plastic bottles.
You are those words. You have become your opposite.
There across your chest the letters spell POISON.
Your sleep is confused. You don’t know I’m by you.
I am what sleeps in you. Those are my books,
this is my room, too. I am your witness. All
the books that lay around our bed won’t make
you know this.