when the striped prism
hits the wall
my orbs flicker. overnight
shapes jostle and
scrape
their edges writhing,
yearning for
looming rites.

it beckons.
my tower
coils off the
sleep square and
lumbers
onward, toppling
before the shape box.

hard corners frame
the grim rectangle,
taller than wide
and utterly barren
mind a headstrong clasp
and carelessly
scrawled adage:
gach rud ina áit cheart

as the hand traces seven
mist leaps into the air,
and strewn outlines
vanish among the
bucking locker's
jinx.

when the veil clears,
new shapes enshrine
the feet of the
box that stands still,
tired.

as i quietly reconstruct
myself i
behold an oval more
rotund than yesterday.
guilty are those frothy
barrels sunk
through the hole and
down the stump.

that box always twigs.

each day it bears new shapes,
spawns a blueprint that
stacks and stumbles out the
door. as i saunter through
seasons, it keeps boughs
tidily pinned.

one smokefall,
i made the woods.
i traced new shapes under
the moon, the box
my onlooker.

furious,
it spawned tattooed
sticks at sunrise and
fastened them to
my elbows.

a sennight later, i slinked
into chambers with
unfamiliar shapes and
paid dearly with
a splotched collar
and sunlit glares.

under sour drops i rued
that slender prism–
bending across
reckoned cells,
i pined for the edge

and so it was mine.

that morning i
didn't ache from the
clattering tiles
no
they had melted into
a spry soma. a
slick figure that sprang
out of bed and
moseyed towards the
shrine out of habit.

but the box stood still
quiet
the bolt affixed to
the seam had
splintered, leaving
the hatchway
ajar for the
first time.

keen, my careful fingertips
peeled the door
away and as i
stared into the
void

i made out a
whiskered figure

two triangles poised
on sloped oval
emerge from the shadow
‍
deep green orbs slit
down the middle
illuminate the
cave

and vex my own with
wretched chagrin.
the púca hissed

drew from its pipe

s l i n k e d
away

without a parting
word.