The letters appear in a floor-lit plaza of little bitty be-winged bugs, the tiniest flying ants and gnats and those hoppy, sail-like minies, the largest of the speck creatures not even as long as a grain of short rice, shaped like a grasshopper, but without the hind legs.  All of them drawn to the liiiiiight.  I make the curser something in their world, too.  i think of gnarky, wry midcentury writers who would talk about how easy it is to make a religion, as demonstrated by these bugs’ re-orientation to the curser.  In fact they don’t seem to notice the type at all.  They wouldn’t be here had I not left the porch lights on through dusk.

The work pretends not to haunt me, I pretend to take a break from it, but everything is a lens, an optick.

Let the brain be unlatched, lain open to dry in the sun twice a year.  Not thinking anything but making the place that I will be soooo glad for when brain curls back into its tight spiral, one thing on top of the other stacked in the shifted symmetry that the curl provides.

Purification, it says.  ‘purification is necessary first’ before any miracle.  Purification is such a fanatical word, who can purify, really?  Look how we scrub our oil of olay faces, and eat organic and purify purify purify out damn-ed spot!  Out!  But, what other word might mean  wake up? which is my preferred word for the one and very same talking to myself transition in perspective which I wouldn’t call purification because that presumes a reality to er, er, she sputters to a stop on the letter t to get to the essence, eh, to return to the state, the state of forgetting how to write on account of taking a week off, I got sooooo much done around the Kentucky place,

because purification doesn’t mean to clean it means to get to the simplest

I bring myself around to the moment