“We can draw far-reaching inferences as to the constitution of the psyche from the constitution of the body, but we can also infer from psychic peculiarities the corresponding bodily characteristics.” p. 74, C.G. Jung, “Modern Man in Search of a Soul”.

My small eyes, the actual eyes,
watch the fan-air blowing the lemon
on the surface of my tea.
A storm in a teacup no less!
And the small eyes of my soul,
are they too allergic to dust and cat mites?
Do my psychic eyes close up if rubbed too hard,
all my visual life focused in slits?
Do my psychic eyes display tears and laughter too?

My long legs, my actual legs
sweat gently, my feet sticking
to the unsteady painted floor
which needs retouching.
Do the legs of my soul
react slower than expected for their length?
Are they starting to display
marks and changes of age,
veins and discolorations and open pores,
but still serviceable?
Ah yes, they carry me well and still feel good.

My stomach, my bete noir,
podgy, undisciplined, pink and crinkled,
not my best part,
resides, bloated, under a black tshirt,
sweaty like the rest of me,
crinkle tickled by the fan.
My stomach looks and feels less than my best.
Is my soul stomach the same?
Sensitivity to contents,
subject to distending and gas,
and given to unexpected pains and gripes.
Perhaps I stomach the subjects of life badly?