I say you make me know I have a soul.
I feel inside the core of me a pull
that takes me out of me. I’ve no control
about this tractor beam, and I am full
at once with ache and bliss. My spirit’s spun
like silk and tensile bends to where I yearn
as sharply as the compass Mr. Donne
employed to illustrate this angling turn.

No pheromone’s involved in this, no touch,
no open-pupilled eye. Requited lust
and mounting love is just a dream with feet,
unless there’s more to us. If we are such
that we have souls, then what I’m feeling must
be evidence that ours were formed to meet.