Beyond Flesh and Bone...beyond the self...where the poet treads...

Personal poetry is often more soul-searching than sole-searching, but the latter is where Pablo Neruda unabashedly focuses his attentions -- nay, on his legs in totality, actually -- quite a terra incognita or incarta for most poets, I would guess.

Towards the end of the poem, where he is pondering on the end(s), the extremities, he takes the leap beyond and transcends his flesh...

Ritual of My Legs
...
So, to the ticklish extremes of my footsoles
stanch as the sun, and expanded like flowers,
a troop in the wan wars of space, unflagging, resplendent--
all come to an end, all that is living concludes in my feet:
from there on, the hostile and alien begins:
all the names of the world, outposts and frontiers,
the noun and its adjective that my heart never summoned
compact with consistency, coolly, emerge.

Always,
things, fabrication: stockings and shoes,
or simply the infinite air:
dividing my feet from the dust of the world
compelling my solitude, compounding my exile:
between life and the earth that I tread, the assumption, unyieldingly there,
the invincible power and the enemy agent, laid bare.