(no subject)

[fahye]

Aristotle

You will not find the soul within my eyes;
no steady gaze or sunset-lidded glance
holds such a thing. And should you try to prise

apart my truer ribs, you'll realise
the heart beats dumb and takes no eager stance
on poetry. Ask not if the soul lies

in molecules that mingle and enhance
the neuron's power to fire and analyse,
the trembling of a shoulder turned askance;

distill me not to body parts. You'll chance
upon the soul in no such bleak disguise;
the soul is not the feet: it is the dance.