Shadow Puppet

Unimpressed by the body

Of your soul, as Wilde called it,

In a catchy line you love

And have loved for decades now,

The one that goes, what men call

The shadow of the body

Is not the shadow of the

Body, but is the body

Of the soul, which is stupid,

You’ve been building a shadow

Of your own, an alternate

To the usual dimmed light

Mistaken for a darkness

The obscuring body throws,

A real shadow for your soul.

Where others might write fiction

Or attempt to show bright truth,

You’ve had your fun pretending

That the fiction of a soul

Could project some dimmer truths

Through these material codes

That cultures make of language—

Ink, print, bits, recorded voice—

All densely compacted waves,

Decaying but more slowly,

You hope, than your flickering

Shadow, the embodied soul.