Round the block circle the square. Around the block again, every time
I leave the house I forget to look back in the window. When in the
living room looking to the street I remind myself “Leave the house,
look back in the window.” Repetition, “look in the widow” and round
the bend again, passed when the window’s mirror reflects the street.
Nearly forgotten then I peeped on the go around and the shaded window
disguised familiarity. Traversing the reverse of the once again looped
block, wind swept words and lighter detritus to the underpass. There
then are tires multi-octaves - a whine lush with pulsing. “Look…”
Trammeling loops supplant florid distortions. Time glided and throbbed
the succinct moans of the area, as with the “click.” The one
registering laps. The splice of “there is the house, the window.”
Forget to look in again. Passed the silent box and the one that whirs.
That dusted memory. Warbled my pace, which skews and directs variance
to the pounds of my pounds of distortion. “Don’t forget to look in
again.” Fuzzy as the atmosphere ascending the drawn shade filters
reflection. Choosing a new path within the path: walking on the
embankment, detailing spring’s now revealed thawed garbage.
Where tremulant flowers in the wind, surrounded by garbage hummed
worried I huffed off the slightly elevated path to the more so
elevated house. I looked out the window. My gaze sought the florid
distortion, click, and the box. There then, ascertaining the circular
block could any points simultaneously contain a beginning and end.
This reverse sight straightened my hunch, umbilical as it were. Inside
this looped thought tepid coos “Take down. Give me something to hold
on to.”
[Buy Box from Eggy Records]
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