Souls

 

If I had ever breached your bridge of clothes

 

I might suppose that souls truly exist

and eternity’s on the other side

where 24/7 evangelists

pour praise into prose I’d die to avoid.

 

Suppose them sitting in homes and cities

of some virtual visionary fashion.

Would their ghostly, gaseous entities

perforate the balloon for a passion?

 

Suppose that those souls could access peep-holes

and observe you disrobe and unfasten

black stockings and skirt, your red camisole,

ectoplasm would ache for orgasm

 

and ignoring warnings, sign the waivers,

drink up the potions and shuffle the dice;

flutter and beat in their fruitless labours,

entering the trap with wide open eyes.

 

It’s just as well that you kept your legs closed.