What if the soul was the hardest
of all substances?
An igneous aftermath of fire.
An indelible footprint of forever.
And what if it were not an atom
or anything smaller,
and not a galaxy or anything bigger,
but lives outside dimension
and flows like blood.
What if my fingers tremble
with its electricity
that lights no bulb or makes
lightning in the sky.
Gathers all the memories of the world
in its transparency, and says,
I love you where your blood flows.
Where you tremble me and throw me
like a ball,
caught by your gravity,
and held weightless in your eyes,
where we catch fire.
Children of fire walking in the rain
down somewhere street
called Love.