I recently discovered I have never not lived in a box of some kind.  Born to an imaginary incubator in order to convenience my parents’ belated matrimonial moment, I moved on every time to a new or imagined box.  Cribs, rooms, apartments, storage areas, milk crates, cardboard boxes, art deco wooden crates for shipping almond rosewater to crazy city dames in the roaring 20s, tobacco tins, jewel cases.  Where do jewels go?  Into boxes.  In, out.  It never stops.  They don’t.  I would, but I can’t.  Things are always opening and closing, and I must run.  I try to think, but then something starts to close, and I must run awind of my scattered desultory thoughts.  I usually arrive with only the last few wisps of who I was planning to be trailing behind my body in confusion.  The body of consciousness, eternally inchoate, vocabularizing, using and losing, streaming and steaming, wanting and needing, gone but not forgotten.  Who said that first?

Second base again!
In, out.
Diamonds, boxes, mind matter,
cirrus storm lightning eagle wind.

out of one box,
into another.



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