Because it is four in the morning and love is asleep but slowly stirring. Because the trace is as elusive and illusory, as it has always been. Because there were hints of its shadow, moving, everywhere, even when I was five, and the puzzle pieces arranged themselves into neatness. Because the alphabet seemed to come easy, unlike math which seemed a latticework, one cage stacked upon another. Because my mind needs to see its own desire, its thought, its speech, and let it manifest in a shape or a color. Because the immanence of becoming, this ongoing presence, as Deleuze would have it, demands the poem be written as architecture, as if there was a building to be made, one built on the soil and flower bed of forms. Because metonymy is more than something makeshift, more than metaphor, and life drives itself onward, into the early morning like conatus, and Spinoza’s own endless striving. Because this is the chance to see the eight lines within an ottava rima splinter and reposition themselves into triangles and squares and oblongs, as the circle bounces off an edge, then rolls into the field of another shape. Because this is the shape of things in my mind, in its pasture where letters and geometry construct their own artifice. Because Derrida and Lacan too were inscribed, their unwitting economy of exchange a gift to language. Because in philosophy, there is poetry, and in the poetic something philosophical. Because something of an aesthetic thinks, and therefore comes into being – its own sense of becoming.