Is that a giant concrete block behind you Christopher? Oh, why yes it is. Shall I read you a poem, then? Why, yes you shall. Thank you. No, thank you.
text:
box: fate
it is a summons now
to leave ourselves
wayward instead
of
exploring forgotten
spaces.
I know wobble and
tempt to detect a
useless sculpture
in the plains of some country.
if I succeed I will
write a book;
if I fail I will
take back into town a twisted
tree limb
and toss it in a well to hear the sound
collapse around brick lining.
fate would have it either way,
smirking,
shrieking, and tucking itself away
in
a tiny box.
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