Incorporeal

Under the muscle

the bones slide about like sticks 

nested in their places

but still able to rotate

and over it all

the soft felt of my skin

holding me together.

Pretty often

I don’t think about having a body

the intellect drives

from its seat

up here in the head

and unless pain knocks loudly 

or thirst 

I don’t listen to the clamor.

I think about having eyes

because mine are so broken 

that only the technological magic

of glasses or contacts 

gifts me sight

and my mouth for tasting 

and my fingers for touching 

and hands for holding.

The rest of me fades like

the shape of a ghost

held together by ideas

by the drumbeat of cognition 

pounding louder than 

the real engine of the heart

which I mostly ignore

because who wants to hurt

or feel heartsick

if it can be helped.