The half-life of moonlight. Slowly - accomplished first in dreams, then under the influence of a fluorescent telepathic octopus, then with Christ, then as a matter of fact - reversing the perceptual errors associated with cause-and-effect. Doing laundry at five a.m., tightening the cap on the Mason jar in which finely-ground coffee is stored. "Evolution is a gift from God," he said, while pretending that he hadn't just given me a gift, a significant one, which was annoying but I let it go as you must. Bad men over the years, too many to count, and myself one of them some of the time. Over the years sleeping mainly with women who used language in ways that deepened my relationship with dictionaries. I remember kissing on the shore of Fitzgerald Lake and opening my eyes after to see dozens of turtles surfacing and realizing that they rose - in a non-metaphorical way - in worship. People think my obsession with images means I know about the narrative function of images, which I do not. It's fun to use the word soul in a sentence, so why not do it more often? This broken heart, this empty throat. This whore-sought soul. What else did I come back for but for you?