I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the soul … / At another place he sings:/ I have said that the soul is not more than the body.
The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, / It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world. /Man and woman: different entities? / I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, / And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man
Sun enters in, not in, everything. Shimmering water slaps itself, triadic then singular when sun stops designing. Wind is still. At the lake’s end, a woman, wondering where shadows went, where contrasts went, praising the recent clouds, what unity it shares, staring out —with the eyes of drowned corpses—at the water, still rippling, each ripple going into the next, and all she thinks is Whitman, you were always right.
In an oasis of flowers, briars — plucked up, petalless, petals a drying violet — strewn in rows, one by one along the flowerbed’s line; a number of trees slant at vulva-angle, each a leafless dome. Their timber—semi-broken.
Two days from now, there will be a storm, and they will split apart, spread out along the briars, the shriveling leafs and petals.
I Sing the Body Electric, she sings, and imagines the voice of Whitman, deep with a coarseness electric. Remembers. He thought everything was one and luminous; the bee flying in the sky was not flying, but gliding on, into until—a part of it. Turning, she faces the mirror. Everything is equal, or of one scale, she thinks: there is no room for dualism, exact criss-cross lines or black on white. Her eyes stare into her eyes. Her skin: her skin. From behind, a hand folds around her shoulder. Sameness. She turns, faces her lover. Leans onto him. Tiffany sheet breathe out, folds around their bodies. No space escapes. There is only—union. Like a lake in cloudy days. She smiles.
Everything is adapting for wholeness. The flesh, she thinks, only the name of body’s surface, the body not the soul's cage but the necessary part of it. He touches her: her flesh: her soul. She smiles. Thinks of the lake in the sun and then in the clouds.
She is back at the lake again. The grass divided when she passed — no — adapted around her feet. It was nevernanything, she thinks, but whole.