of one and two,
something furious must
go missing;
something furious must
go missing;
between two and three persists
a distraction, an Instagram picture:
an idyllic waterfall—with Sisyphus
photoshopped down at the bottom;
three will only hook-up with four
the way a pale green door fits
with its frame—thin ribbons of empty
space all around it,
a rectangle of light
escaping from an off-limits interior
too reminiscent of the house you
grew up in to bear.
For the choreographer—
whose idea of truth
whose idea of truth
fits inside the cramped beauty of space
like lace
like lace
slippers inside a white
workaday box,
whose escape from the real is
whose escape from the real is
the regimentation of the possible—
such profligate ciphers
must leave
not enough, or else too many
rooms for error.
such profligate ciphers
must leave
not enough, or else too many
rooms for error.
