An essay on the soul with a prayer during a funeral.
I stood before him, afraid, to save her.
Not much can be said about the soul. there isn't much to say. the soul of things... the soul tangled among the organs, among the bones... it's more: poetry is like exorcising things, revealing the violence that throbs in each thing, the soul, the fissure, the wound and looking there where the world breaks. there isn't much to say. hence poetry. Silence.

But now he, emptied soul, drained soul: dad went from a burst heart to an empty heart. exorcising dad, exorcising dad, dad's corpse and untangling his soul. then look into its eyes. the horror: there was nothing to do, to say. hence poetry. silence.