Lit Verve

"It’s my mind, with its hoard of horribles,
that’s me.
Or is it really? I fantasise it bodiless,
set free:
No bones, no skin, no hair, no nerves,
just memory,
Untouchable, unwashable, and not, I guess,
my own.
Still, none will know me better when I’m
words on stone
Than I, these creased familiar hands
and clumsy feet.
My soul, how will I recognise you
if we meet?"