Box Kite by Stephen Hastings-King

The box kite floats high over the marsh. You follow the string and its downward trailing arc across an abstract blue field past the curious geometrical forms of white and yellow & a cloud of mechanical birds that wobbles their machine trajectories through modalities of falling & choose one & watch its fall toward the point of its absorption as on another surface a human shape separates from a cube in the ochre and green of the grasses, moving toward you carrying two long poles each with a red flag. The forms moves toward you then stop: flags blur hesitate, blur hesitate some kind of message incomprehensible across distance and distortion.             The box kite floats high over the marsh. You follow the string and its downward trailing arc across an abstract blue field past curious geometrical forms of white and yellow, the line of time, the arcs of things, life spans and trajectories, the tenuousness of focus, the thin white thread and the glare off the water and the sunlight of morning, the descending trailing of your gaze through oscillations of foreground and background that slow as your viewpoint approaches the rooftop you are perched on, the edges of your legs and naked body & the string from the kite that is tied to your penis.

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