Helene Cixous knows a descent
a ladder hooked
on the brim of broad lips, a circle in a sphere.
a dazzling black blanket of moss, spiders’
glitter eyes—you turn your back on the day
to step your first foot forward,
tnto what might be below a surface
a cut, a window in the fabric.
Peer under at what happens when you sleep still
into what might be eternal night.
This is where
the writing begins.