Cephalic

I place a black cloth the size of a dot over his head. Wrap his entire miniscule body
with a thread of my black hair. He lies there on a white sheet of paper and squirms like
a dark cocoon, thinks he is going to transform. The letter, when it begins to lose color
in a book never opened, becomes a macula in thought. And when read through the lens
of a decimal point: see its dark fleck of a cranium, see expendable language—grab the
letter j next to him, hold it like a tiny black scythe, behead the i and watch its dot head
roll to the back of a sentence.