We have run through the city too fast.
We must wait for our souls to catch up.
We are searching. We fear they are lost.
We have grown unaccustomed to waiting.
We are restless as children in silence.
And how to be still without wanting?
All that we have is nothing. All that we know
is nothing. What must we do who rely on doing,
now we have only breathing, being and now?
We cannot be sure they will return at all,
our souls. Our hearts are hollowed-out bowls
we hold under a fevered sky for rain to fall.
We are lonely without ourselves and each other.
We call out all the names we know for our souls.
We call them again. We call them over and over.
© Chris Banks
Published in ‘the Rialto’