

Meander


 
water rustles it crackles Ali is coming with a backpack the tape at his neck the shadow his shadow is longer
the birch tree rolls the performer rolls the light shines on me it rustles
John is going out suddenly the circles are drawing eights Frank walking, a rectangle barefoot
JoĂŤlle leaves her corner paper rolls a chair a broom a vest warns us
Ali sticks to the tape I bleed Joëlle lays patterns John, very small Frank's traces Máiréad’s confetti
caution caution glass caution glass labels the backpack
the bike is too small Frank’s ribbons flutter Joëlle’s wool meanders Máiréad’s cables are mended
patterns appear
 
his hands, folded left, right, straight the white roses, like imitations how to carry roses roses without thorns
too sharp pencils too grey for John’s black neck I take his tape 3 roses in 4 vases, 4 corners, 2 feet a black bike crossing
not being Alastair a flash as a thought: not to be Alastair, to be frank
extended leg and the others that never extend the leg holds the tree, the others always pedal time stretches, it comes after us
closed systems waiting, smoking
where does John piss and when? he sweats


circles and crosses John drives circles within circles and Ali is Jesus he hangs his head like the relict of a medieval altar cross I saw in a museum a head, that embodies it all some head always hangs somewhere
cycling around the campfire the birch tree leans against the pillar metal wood woman light eternal roses four roses four vases the bands of the glasses the slingshot with chalk to the wall at us time folding it shoots at us
who counts the rounds, the runs to endure/to tire/to freeze
Ali folds JoĂŤlle packs Frank strides MĂĄirĂŠad rolls with the tree John sticks to the bike
pulling the branch climb where to pack unpack
a constantly moving circle a woman crossing a chair with her finished and closed by the round cloth
memories and time are two lakes, no watercourse.
blowing white chalk as a picture emerges
The tape burns. The border burns. Ali is inside, finally. Watching it burn. Nothing else. Just John on the bike.
Ali joins Frank and Alastair the course finally glows in the evening light The birch tree shines, it spins, Máiréad carries it on her shoulders. Joëlle unravels the red wool meanders.