Not reincarnation, not really,
Maybe a long, very long coming into being
as though one's soul might be centuries arriving
to where it could bear – or be borne by –
that infinitesimal blastula hurtling towards birth.

And likewise at the last, frolicking abandoned, laying aside
the tedious breath, freed of hunger, pulse, bowel;
the web of vocabulary, around the edges of everything, melted
until only everything remains, to evanesce throughout centuries,
at the Judgment Seat, virtue from virtue discerned,
sin from sin, innocence from innocence,
joy from its guilt disassembled.

Copyright © Jim Michmerhuizen 2007: all rights reserved