How her fingers lengthen into the blue fault, arms long to be buoyant. I try the beginning with
stiff knees, mark the steps with anti effort I think she might like. The dance goes nowhere, you
are here in the negative space of driftwood. I see her left eye only if I pause the film, offering a
false sight: balance held, wrist to forehead. She didn’t intend for the phrase to stop. Turning the
body over itself. No to emotion located anywhere but here, in the placement of spine or transition
from her previous shape. Actual time and actual weight. A flowering branch gives direction,
after the monotone fall of wood slats thrown from the balcony. Her rendered music. Gaze
averted or head turned. I leave the unknown bloom on wainscoting and ask you to name it later,
we haven’t finished painting the kitchen. Glass, floorboards, plastic light, my own attempt at
beginning. Turning my body over itself. I think about what she put in a row, the last four
gestures, touching the four before them.