THE SOUL   The soul in its doorway and then the doorway dies. This is misbehavior. Each soul is a kind of manna on itself. A doorway that recedes in size until perspective tells kind falsehoods: that the doorway is fitted to the soul. Slick manna of meaning is soul’s parasitical soul. This is not good. Goodness does not have structure.   The soul loves a termite’s logic of structure: it eats it. Soul reproduces itself a hundred, no, a thousand times and eats itself. Infinitesimal teeth make pearly dust.   The soul compels love and extermination. By taking away the larger structure, each of us souls acquires many, many smaller structures. A home inside pearly dust. The tooth’s logic is the doorway.   Manna spoils if not eaten immediately. Around us, we see it descend. It tells us we are one: be united I see it descend. I see the doorway cut into the belly of the manna. Soul, disclose this soul. Madly repeat yourself. Like a fine mist in the air, one doorway thrown open after another. Until the portal states its purpose: disgorge purpose. We are one pulse, particulate and tinting the atmosphere. We see the spoils descend. Immediately: surround us. All souls. I aspirate. I surround us.   Faith will brandish the blade that will cut toward the inner workings. Hence the inner workings escape, and slip around to the door, and there they shrink and make the soul's perfect structural opacity. Only repetition does violence, but that is no shirking of the good. The necessary good. The good constraining of the doorway: we do as I, immediately, sink down into it. I do believe the soul's logic is good.   from, On Ghosts, Elizabeth Robinson, Solid Objects, 2013