Writing is a religion in which each letter jams the inner eye. Their arms & legs, their sharp hooks and blunt edges, testify to the violence of their birth. They are marching, some like hobbled containers wobble, barely holding the juice they have squandered; others like eyes or moons mistake empty space for light & draw the human sacrifices in. Who has not wished for a cave, who has not slept curled up in a dark ball? Every letter knows this, millions of beasts slaughtered and eaten- who has heard their cries? The dried blood of words smeared on snow, the crust, frozen scab, - it is always winter even in the description of the sun. For when a word leaps in, the day freezes- utterly still winter trees, twigs bold against doughy clouds. I fell asleep inside the pillow, my head sewn in a sack of words, a novel. Author, your words attack me with my brain. Now I sleep on the page and letters pour out of my nostrils in an ant trail. Following their tiny footsteps I enter a kingdom, a cave, a wherewithal. My fate is in their skeletal dream. And you too-- love-- your lips pursed expectantly, await a word -- not mine and not yet yours-- I stop and kiss the page with my eye.