Viewfinder

I wake.
My soul spent the night
resting on an eyelash.
It slips into an iris, 
ready for duty. 
I hear my heart 
beat again, feel 
the smoothness
of pillowcase, lift
the whole corporeal canister
to reach for my glasses.

Cool arms curl each ear,
a bridge arches nose, 
lenses tighten the resolution 
of each scene — everything 
obscured or enhanced 
by the tip of my nose, 
my fleshy cheeks. 

Our private viewfinders
draw us like dogs with cameras 
attached to our heads —
lovable goofballs
lumping through life,
gusto noses 
leading the way.

Where is my soul now
that I am awake? 

Ribcage,
liver, 
duodenum —
in the darkest places,
out of frame,
editorial.

--

I've kept an index card with a scribbled note on it on my desk for several weeks: "noticing your cheeks, heartbeat, breath, end of nose, frames of glasses." Yesterday this poem arrived.