The box

One enters the box with the spiked gate to make clockwise oval circles , of familiar world views, at times, with strange incursions of thoughts asking why a certain black cat beside the rock and the sprinkler exists in today’s accomplished view.

It is not the cat alone by the rock. Try changing to anticlockwise to see the strangely preoccupied faces that seemed to be thinking much on their burping stomachs and acid. Then squeals of old laughter greet morning views of mist and rabbits- disappeared rabbits that had merely jumped out of the box and gone.

There was no grass left in the box. We are making circular motions dutifully in our own square boxes. We look up to see standing people in balconies of red-and-blue houses bursting with morning men and pants. They should be back in their box soon.