Tomato soup at four A. M.
We seemed to sit upon the floor
But, with a feathery discretion,
We advised our bodies
To make the floor a glistening fundamental
Flattened by the walk of centuries.
Continuing the advice,
We told our bodies to arrange
A variation on the floor
And give the floor a living
Reason for existence.
Our bodies, with clandestine movements,
Accepted the advice
And became the essences of Plato,
Almost tempting our flesh
To renounce its weight.
Our lifted knees were actors
Simulating treason to our souls,
With their prominence of bone.
They were interviewed
By elbows that held a light disbelief.
Our backs against the cushions
Had disappeared, and we did not move
For fear that all of us
Might rush away through the openings.
Our heads were fiercely bent down,
As though they felt an ecstasy
Of shame at their crudity ...
When we returned to the tomato soup
It was an insipid fluid,
But we drank it indifferently,
And it is also possible
That an unearthly laugh
Peered through the crevices of our eyes,
Finding no need for sound.