souls

It is only a miracle, you can’t prove it
that your pets forget now and then about
their wings, legs, tails and tongues, about
the walls which greedily imbibe the air they touch
and TV and computer screens one by one,
the air they swim in forgetting about the horizons
and all the suns, moons, clouds and stars buried underneath.
Traffic jams are marvelous illusions, the anger
they create, I never remember if it tells me
where I can discard my soul and buy another one
for the price of a pear, where I can exchange it
for a soul too complicated to care whether
it exists or not. And I don’t care.