The soul pushes against the sides of the narrow chamber whose only purpose is to keep it in, hold it in one place, prevent it from leaving its bed and bursting into the air, then dissolving in the grass at your feet. Or it flutters, courting any current that would take it away. The air, chilled at evening, touches every stray tendril that hasn't yet curled inward into itself. Unending rehearsal, with no possible understudy: everyone's absorbed learning their own lines, their own moves. A heap of discarded costumes lies on the floor: rippled silks, rough linens. Socks and shoes, scarves to wind against your throat.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.