In the mornings, over the stovetop.
With an arched neck,
lays an ear to the fleshy divet
between his chests pectoral lumps
and listens to the metronomic
drumbeat of blood.
Oh Soul, can't you see I'm dying
to know where it is you're making
(This is not about the beauty of the language!
Come out, my hands are clean!)
The soul remains quiet,
flexing in the dark
to whom I addressed my next question:
And what are you the lack of?
And why do I hate you so much?
The blood pumps.
A waft of pancake batter cooking lifts,
pungence of a morphic creature.