A building resembles a raincoat. The night sky is shutter
clicked. The darkroom conditions of the dance floor allow
me to take advantage of foreshadowing. She refuses to join
the rest of us on our US tour on the grounds that America
doesn’t exist. Flash, hush. When Alice Coltrane calls it
is lissome like the air between mortars or that sweet way
Wittgenstein recited mantra and raga on “The Firebird.”
Some winter sparrows wear raincoats. The strobes cut
away the icicles hanging like thumbs off my blue arms.
The woman who inhales inexorables licks my lips, stirs
my drink. When I lived in Spain, she says, I was moved
by an unseen hand, she says, I would witness the reverse
side of actions, she says, before the verse side could occur,
she says, as if my trips have any interest for you, or me.
Wearing a coat that resembles a Philip Johnson, I hear
fire humming. On stage, a cellist lights a match and waits
for it to go out. But her old gang, an internationally in-
famous 4-tet has booby-trapped her illuminator. Now
she’s unable to move beyond transcription. They place
her in the straitjacket of interpretation. Watch us fall.
There’s a gray cat in the corner kinking her strings like
hawthorn roots, like iris, like when Alice Coltrane calls.