An Idle Eidolon

Birds and cockroaches,
Lizards and parrots,
Worms, planets, and stars—

The soul sits and sulks.
Too much nature tends
To offend spirits.

Among the phrases
Produced by creatures,
It’s all about who

Or what’s important,
Divine, good, or wrong.
Among the phrases

Signing heartlessly,
Lipless, gestureless,
Amongst just ourselves,

It’s all about what
The hell do we mean
To them anyway,

How is meaning made
From us, from our bones,
Our patterns in air?

Damned if we can know
Even what we mean
To ourselves. Like so,

The insubstantial
Conversation goes,
Soul alone with souls.