On the Soul

I was thinking of the soul,
that lone sock lost in the wash
which my more pragmatic part
insists must exist someplace
waiting to be found

I was thinking of the sock,
of how it might disintegrate
slowly or all at once, a mist
of lint still clinging
to the screen
and how easily one might mis-
recognize this, its new form

I was thinking of what
matter is, and of what matters,
world without end,
no thing ever created
nor destroyed, only
transmuted, both soul
and mateless sock, into the next
unutterable thing

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