An early June haze and jays
       call from its edges, and finches.

       I turn to their singing wanting.
       What is suffering anyway.

       Tsvetayeva says the soul is
       our capacity for pain. I have 

       no soul then, no capacity.
       Or else I’m all soul. There is

       no end to gravity, all weight
       is drawn to a body’s center.

       I come out here to make peace.
       Through wind the world touches me:

       cheek, nape, brow. Listen. Tell me
       we are not the soul turned outward.