Little blue boxes
Little blue boxes piled up one on the other: that is what she sees. And in each box are orange fires that whisper and cling saying don’t let me out don’t let me out. Pyramids of boxes are born out of boxes: one box stepped on another boxes hand, one saw toes coming toward it and shivered inside itself. The one seeing doesn’t utter a word, but the alphabet lingers around her corners, pinching them to make them right. At some point everyone stopped moving, except the fires in their hearts, bent heads of waiting flames. So patient you wouldn’t think they could be any other way. But it’s painful, this perpetual entrance, painful that you see it as the darkness, that you believe in lifeless fires that can burn like a photograph.