She
is
lying
on
the
ground.
She
lies,
thinking,
inwardly.
Her
lips
(still)
describe
a
strong
purplish
bow
even
as
she
lies
(thinking,
inwardly).
These
lips
are
never
undone.
I
notice
their
accurate
lines
each
time
I
look
at
her
face. And
he
–
he
looks
–
he
looks
forwards
lying
downwards,
like
a
schoolboy,
on
the
ground,
into
a
book,
a
book
for
holding
words,
for
remembering,
for
making
marks,
for
tracking
what
will
be
this
performance,
this
first
and
last
Last
performance. Another
is
wearing
a
baseball
cap
that
looks
overly
large
for
his
perfectly
smallness.
It
is
green,
and
he
is
remembering
Bach
for
us,
Bach
is
in
America
today,
he
is
in
Chicago.
Bach
is
playing
the
final
seconds
of
something
or
other.
I
don’t
recall.
It
isn’t
important. Bach’s
last
10
seconds? Bach
on
Wabash,
on
Montrose.
Bach
for
now.
Bach
today,
one
more
time.
Bach
remembered. Over
there,
another
one
walks
and
talks.
His
body
has
softness
and
his
leap
is
breathtaking
and
bendy.
When
he
stoops
and
falters
as
an
old
poet
I
could
weep.
Secretly
I
enjoy
the
sentiment. And
she
(another)
is
walking
with
a
book
in
her
hand,
suggestive,
firm,
always
looking
for
the
place
of
comfortable
interchange.
Always
knowing
where
to
find
the
gold,
watchful
of
the
way
things
gather
and
dissipate
and
attentive
to
the
remnants
a
space
can
hold.
There’s
a
foot
out
of
joint.
There’s
a
joint
out
of
foot. There.
I
like
to
watch
that
movement
cross
the
floor,
and
she
performs
it
as
if
it
were
without
effort.
I
cannot
believe
how
light
the
scuttle
back
and
forth
appears.
She
is
a
dance.
Her
voice
is
unweighted. Try
the
air.
Try
not
to
try.
Try
to
imagine
halfness
but
fully. Edge.
Spare.
Local.
Focal.
Hands
that
perform
‘faithful’
and
‘sadness’
and
‘talk
to
me,
I
am
younger
than
you,
and
I
want
to
be
proud’
and
‘watch
this.’ It’s
quiet
in
here.
It
is
time
for
love. Thoughts
and
memories
as
I
travel
on
a
6-hour
bus
journey
in
December.
The
air
is
stale
and
the
windows
wet
with
condensation,
the
moon
has
risen
full
and
bright
white
on
a
winter’s
night,
the
fog
keeps
us
tied
tightly
to
the
road,
my
heart
is
quiet
in
its
cage.
These
half-remembered
thoughts
bring
me
back
to
a
Goat
Island
rehearsal
16
weeks
ago,
in
an
auditorium
in
Chicago,
while
military
planes
raged
and
thundered
ominous
displays
outside
up
and
down
the
shoreline
of
Lake
Michigan,
and
thousands
of
people
–
old
and
young
and
in
between
-
gathered
to
watch
this
dreadful
rehearsal
for
war
as
inside
we
were
pacing
out
the
elements
of
a
language
towards
peace.
=> info | Construct a last
Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt