Clifton, ‘this, our machine’ waking up and taking form, clicking at and mimicking itself to measure it’s space. Apart, then together running along the train tracks hearing horns, while the veil is thin between worlds, and ancestry and industry are wailing through it, like a movie theater screen of rubble and speed, the less malevolent notes of steel and wind find eventual resonant harmony. Underneath my body underwater,  my sonar drifting along the bottom, not lost but how it goes without sight, and in the end, peacefully dizzied into the hypnotics of being subsumed by an other.

Where I am vs where I should be is the only repetition so far blasted and crashing across a near melody, splicing forward and back, dial up of past clipping, lagged forward, voices talking, printing press, cement highway. Not a single being as empty and vast as you might imagine, pre connection fumbling, first scales finding pitch, until light speed, until birdsong. Hands steadfast, without need for explanation. Moss agate all mouths filling up and holding lungs, equal parts added until snapping, repeated rocking on a lip, releasing all at once, each time. Inside a page is this vortex precisely, a withering vertigo numbness spinning on the lathe, becoming round.

- Sasha McEvoy on J. Ashdown's "Shape Unto Itself"