flight without feather, 4 dancers [fresno, plato, aphrodite, stearns]
Everyone slows down and locks the rearview mirror when the ambulance arrives.
Look how the lightning subtracts the selves gone amok, grown awry!
It’s fortuitous, calmly, to entertain such shallowed breaths of equability; poise, if you will—
before the magnifications of the most-recent duplicities spill with the inconsolable cellos right off the page.
Our hummingbirds have grown their emerald bellies while we were away from all the rigmarole.
Three of them now, flying backwards, skirt the horizon’s thinning margins with soft, teal.
The last scattering of verbs coagulated all the prepositions.
You know—how wax burns before it mitigates memories of the dead conductor’s elegant hands;
their bones a map of flight without feather.
Are you ready? We’re pitching left to right now.
[Fresno is afraid.]
Go ahead, call your person quickly from the green room, but the WiFi is down due to the storms.
Plato, Aphrodite, and Stearns are playing with Playdoh in this absurd sandbox.