I had something to say.
A big wind loped inside.
I could barely discern the curve of her tongue.
If I suggest to you the outline of something.
He asked to take the upper right portion, to move diagonally with a dragging left foot.
In the old days things were crisper.
Over time everything moves.
Glass ages, bevels, sags, furrows.
Blocking comes easy to some.
Elbows up. Chin to the east.
Two genres without shape, without direction, meet on a proscenium.
Two genres in an earthquake.
Two genres without paddles.
I am saying something directly to you.
If you hear something indirectly you might turn sideways.
(In the distance a large ear rolling)
Every line has several hooked beneath it.
Every line without bolts.
She ate her cues.
She spat her lines.
Someone from wardrobe came round but they were all with their heels in the air.
She thought, What would I give to be devoured?
The table came to with some difficulty.
In her ear sand.
In her fingers glass.
The audience hanging by strips of gauze.
--on TCR's special Poet's Theatre Issue with thanks.