telos

what is the soul
of a thing

painfully awake blood
vessels burning round
the retina the ceiling

so cold so utterly manufactured
processed slabs of concrete
welded together
a job for a job
for a job

and me the telos
busy in this staring contest
wasting my education away

pondering if it is wrong
for an animal to die
as if the flourishing oyster
isn’t drowning in joy

but here it is the rising
that fat sandy oyster weighing
down the scale lifting me up
beyond the ceiling through justice
and obligation each soul a
raging candle lighting the path

into the
battered and tattered mausoleum
i push aside the dusty skeletons
of atman and jesus
and snuggle up in between.