an old poem I've dug up.
I feel my Body,
it is filled with hunger.
hungry for touch.
hungry for love.
And I wonder,
do these other bodies
those other persons
do their bodies feel like mine?
I walk down the street,
searching the sights,
mining my thoughts,
and see these bodies not my own.
With naked eyes and pregnant
memory,
incarnate with feeling.
Young children radiant with
innocence.
Prostitutes soiled with
loneliness.
Workers reek of exhaustion.
gluttonous belch indigestion.
Playboys so perfumed with
charm,
homeless sit saturate in
shame.
cripples broken with
bitterness.
AIDS patients shivering
feverish
crazies sit ranting delirious
Slumchildren with “shiners”
and bruises,
forage for food - misplaced
in the garbage.
I see bodies.
Seeing only in part.
Revealed but in part.
The persons expressed,
expressed only in part.
What then is there that
bodies be?
What being beneath do they
convey?
Radiant, soiled, reeking,
belching, perfumed, saturated, broken, and shining.
All these tangible and yet,
I have no sixth sense to express.
The famine under inwardly I
groan.
wondering, how do others look
at me?
at me
hungry
with naked eyes and pregnant memory
incarnate
with feeling.
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