Feather light, a bantamweight
David before Goliath, the soul
struggles to impress.

What can it hurl to knock us flat?
Perhaps awe at a Dahlia’s
fractal fanning, petals like vulvas—

or anguish at suffering,
a rubble-dusted child, a pelican
disgorging plastic.

The soul pulls out all stops.
Already quaint, what can it lose?
Tickling like a stray hair,

it is sufficient unto itself.
We either tuck it back
or yank it out.