Elizabeth Robinson: 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



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