Listened to Eat the water as if an amulet, earned, alone, in bed, a set of red hearts bobbing in the upper right hand corner of the screen.
Listened to Eat the water at work, through headphones, bored, upset.
Listened to Eat the water on the subway home, tired.
Listened to Eat the water in my dark kitchen, by an open window, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, after a hot day, a soggy night. My roommate enters the kitchen. She asks what I’m doing. I say I’m getting melancholic. She asks why. I put on “Somethence sealed room 2.” She says, “That’ll do it.”
Water, water, for, sometimes, rivers of milk flowed. Moreover, the rushing sky is constantly turning, and drags along the remote stars, and whirls them in rapid orbits. And, deep in a cave, the rough hair leaves the body, the horns disappear, the great eyes grow smaller, the gaping mouth shrinks, the shoulders and hands return, and each hoof changes back into five nails.
Here is the house, the home, the innermost sanctuary of the great river. Seated there, where the river meets the cave, Bug bus piano speaks to all that flail and flounder in its currents, lifts them up, floats them away on churning streams.
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