a mystery of embodiment

There is body.
Body arises from body.

There is spirit.
Spirit arises from spirit.

In body there is limitation. There is surface.
There is inside.
There is outside.
There is number and there is one bigger than that number.
Always,
There is more.
Always,
There is less.
Always.

In spirit, presence is available
And immediately discovers all.
Spirit is naked and abundant
And turns upon the nothingness.

Then why is it that spirit should be attached to body so,
Lashed with fibers and solitude to a vanishing parade?
Why is it that spirit should find itself in a cubicle with a leaking bulb
Bending over much of a muchness?
Threading the needle to darn this bag of hammers?
Paying for another’s excess?
Chuckling with ridiculousness?
Thrilling to your touch with breath escaping?

Far from a tragi-comical charade,
This is a mystery of embodiment.