The X. It is the Moon Winx Lodge. That X does a lot of work. There is the X that visually represents a cartoon wink. The eyes are X'ed out in death or drunkenness, the unconscious X that mimics the XXX labeling of the jug of moonshine. At night when the kinetic neon of the sign blinks and winks, what flutters on and off is an X of braided tubes. The man in the moon X's out for a moment, then snaps awake again. And why the knowing wink? The X of the unknown or, more precisely, the X of the not wanting to know, the hidden, the disguised, the censored. X'ed out. It is the X of sex, of course, the ultimate rating. The excesses of sex. Or the string of drunken kisses. XXX. The cheesy lodge is a testimonial for itself: The No-Tell Motel. X marks this spot. It now is X-rated. Winx is a kind of poem. It multiplies its meanings. X times X. It's the cross-hatching of a switch, a toggle. It is the map of the crossroads. One does both in bed. Sleep. Sex. Sleep. Sex. This double-cross. These eyes closing in sleep and closing in pleasure. These I's leaning in toward each other, crossed and crossing. X-tasy. X-scape. X-tra marital. "Get it?" the sign says. "Get it?" The sign winxs, and you get it.